


Love in the Dark

by ShoulderTallAbyss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Death Eaters, Deathly Hallows Alternate Ending, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Harry Handling Things like He Does, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Isolation, M/M, Occlumency, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Running, Sacrifice, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Stupid Prophecy, Suspense, The Burrow (Harry Potter), The Deathly Hallows, canon compliant until Forest scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 123,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShoulderTallAbyss/pseuds/ShoulderTallAbyss
Summary: Lord Voldemort was winning the war, and Harry knew it, at no point more clearly than when he is heading to the Dark Forest to confront his fate. The adrenaline-fueled destruction of the Horcruxes had so far driven him, Ron and Hermione to be able to run, to flee and do what had to be done—no matter the consequences, no matter the danger—to end Voldemort. Harry’s life is about to change, if not in the way he expects because, for every question posed for the fate of the Wizarding World, there will be fleeting answers to trace, and no one is more curious than the tyrant himself.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 309
Kudos: 596





	1. Change My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, as do the plot points that she created. I own nothing, I'm just trying to write a story that's been rattling around in my head.
> 
> Main Pairing: HPLV/HPTR, but it will be gradual.
> 
> Notes: Theme of this work is the song Love in the Dark (by Adele, but the version by Leroy Sanchez).  
> I have an outline for this whole story, but it may change as I go. The beginning is very much canon, but then it will diverge heavily once Harry goes to the Forest, onward.  
> Enjoy. Comment if you'd like to, I like that stuff. Criticism? Sure, leave it in the comments.

Lord Voldemort was winning the war, and Harry knew it, at no point more clearly than now. The adrenaline-fueled destruction of the Horcruxes had so far driven him, Ron and Hermione to be able to run, to flee and do what had to be done—no matter the consequences, no matter the danger—to end Voldemort. Now, though, after what he had just witnessed within the Pensieve—Snape’s memory, as confusing and strange as it was to see his life from the man’s perspective—he was feeling so conflicted, so betrayed.

He turned from where he sat on the stone steps next to the Headmaster’s desk to glance at Dumbledore’s portrait. The man just stared back, his eyes twinkling, but with a sadness—unable to give comfort or advice. This had to be Harry’s choice…

So, as Harry sat on that step, he steeled himself with the confirmation that there was no choice, only the illusion of it—it was always going to be this way, meant to be this way, ever since Tom Riddle acted on Snape’s half-heard prophecy that would lead to the destruction of Harry’s parents, Tom Riddle himself, and Harry’s normal life.

He was always going to be the hero, whether people knew what he did next or not. Fate had cast him in the role of sacrificial lamb before his birth, and he had cheated Her for long enough. He glanced around at the office, dimmed by the night settled all around them. This space—the one that he had tried to destroy so thoroughly at the end of his fifth year while failing to quell some of his wretched emotions and withstand his loss of Sirius—now took on all the colors of himself that he had always tried to run from. The darkness was converging, but he was alone, protected in these office walls, and it was quiet—in a way that he hadn’t reveled in in a long while. Despite being on the verge of tears, he smiled despite himself. Dumbledore, for all his faults, had truly cared for him, had wanted to shield him from this war, but knew that that was not a possibility. His former Headmaster had tried to allow him the wholeness of his few moments of happiness like pinpricks of starry light in the blackened night sky of his life.

His last stand against Voldemort would be accepting his death, and no one would or could know what the repercussions of his action would be. In the spirit of a life for a life, Voldemort would destroy his unknown Horcrux, and Fate would finally be appeased to have Harry as Her victim.

He stood, brushing his clammy hands against his jeans. His stomach was doing back flips up into his throat and his head—his scar—had been mercifully silent. Voldemort truly was giving the Light a reprieve, in his insistence that Harry come willingly to him in the Forbidden Forest.

Harry would not disappoint him.

Without another backward glance at the portraits of past Headmasters of Hogwarts, he grabbed his Invisibility Cloak up from where he had dropped it, and swung it around his shoulders and up over his head. He walked towards that heavy wooden door, which separated him, the portraits, and the stagnant peace of the office from the rest of his life. He took that short walk, and with every step felt himself clear his mind in a way that he had never been able to do before in Occlumency lessons. Fear of thinking too much and becoming frozen in indecision won out. Harry pulled the door open and stepped out to meet his end.

The halls remained empty as he walked slowly through them, all too aware of his body and taking in things that he had not noticed in all of his years of being at Hogwarts. The tiny cracks in the gray stone of the banister, worn divots in the stairs from years of students tramping up and down them, and—newer—blood spatters and streaks from bodies that had been removed from their fallen place to the Great Hall.

As he came to the Entrance Hall, looking around at the rubble of statues and lines of blood leading a trail to the Great Hall, a murmur could be heard as friends, family, and strangers regrouped from the first attack. He didn’t wonder if they were curious of Harry’s lack of presence among them. He saw the Weasleys, Hermione, and—his heart gave a brutal lurch—Ginny congregated together. In the middle of them, out of his view, he knew the body of Fred lay. The weight of the deaths that had already happened should have been enough to draw his feet away from where he was swayed to join his friends, to offer empty comfort. It would only end if he left now; no one else would have to suffer an unnecessary death because of his cowardice. Still he couldn’t move away.

He watched as Mrs. Weasley pulled Ron to her and cried, petting George’s hair as he knelt beside his twin. He looked on, an invisible specter as Hermione wrapped her arm around Ginny’s shoulders, and wished that he could be with them, to explain. He felt time pass as he stood at the foot of the stairs and stared into the somber activity before him, never feeling as desperate for someone to come to his aid as he did just then. His trance broke when Madame Pomfrey rushed past him into the room where he desperately wanted to be, muttering frantically to herself. A crate of potions floated closely behind her. His heart pounded as, with no time or ability to say goodbye, and with a silent wish for events to be different, Harry turned on his heel and strode through the entrance hall and out the open front doors.

He passed no one. He walked the sloping grounds unimpeded the whole distance to the Forbidden Forest, which was just as dark as it had ever been, although he now feared nothing in those eerily silent trees. He walked on. Harry passed through several parts of the forest that were vaguely familiar to him—or he was just wishful for something familiar—reminded of the night of his memorable first year detention, when he met the wraith-form of Voldemort and Draco had abandoned him. He passed a tree that, even now, was wide enough to conceal both he and Hermione if a werewolf prowled nearby. He wended through thick trees that he and Hagrid may have stood in and observed dragons that would be pitted against students in a deadly magical tournament of wit and skill.

He had to pause at one point, concerned if he was going the right way, or just down memory lane, because he seemed to be on the approach of the Acromantula den that he and Ron had only narrowly escaped years before. Voldemort had told him to meet him in the Forbidden Forest, but now Harry worried about what would happen if he couldn’t find him in time and Voldemort decided to mount another attack on the castle. Harry began to spin quickly left and then right, looking for an indicator that others had come through this way. Before he could draw himself into any more of a panic, he heard voices nearby. He held his breath, and although still very much invisible beneath the Cloak, stepped back towards the cover of a large tree.

At the sight of two Dark wizards that he vaguely recognized, Harry released a breath, relieved. He stepped out from under his tree, and followed their footfalls in time so as to not crack a stray branch underfoot or rustle a tree too noticeably. Eyes trained on their backs, he ghosted behind them as they unknowingly led him to the snake’s pit. He tuned out their discussion centering around how creepy the surrounding trees were, and that caused Harry to smirk despite his anxious heart and adrenaline. Harry felt quite at home within these trees; there was nothing to fear but one thing tonight, and he refused to fear his death as he resolutely marched forward, unwilling to think too hard about what he was doing, lest he attempt to change course. He needed to do this, for everyone who had come before him—for his parents, for Dumbledore, for Snape, for the Weasleys, for Hermione, and for anyone who was standing up for the cause against the Dark. This sacrifice, his sacrifice of his own soul to destroy Voldemort’s, was their best line of protection. He would not fail.

“These trees Yaxley! Merlin, it’s creepy in here,” said Dolohov.

“Shut up, we’re close to the clearing, do you want our Lord to hear you sniveling like a Mudblood?” demanded Yaxley, although he sounded as though he were putting up a brave front.

“Do you think that Potter showed up and we missed it?” Dolohov said, disappointment coloring his voice.

“No, we would have heard it. He would have called us back from patrol,” Yaxley said certainly, if not with a little bit of bitterness. Harry nearly rolled his eyes, continuing to trail behind the two Death Eaters.

“This was kind of a useless patrol. Wouldn’t have assumed that Potter would let himself be seen if he was walking around in here. Or fleeing... Say, you don’t think he fled the battle, do you?” asked Dolohov.

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Yaxley. There was clear resentment in his voice, which probably stemmed from that he had been paired with Dolohov to walk around in the Forbidden Forest for the last hour instead of being wherever the rest of the Death Eaters were waiting for Harry to show or not. Yaxley may be resentful that he was put out on patrol, but Harry was quite grateful that he had run across them. Fate really had it out for him, though, to always draw him to an early grave.

“He’ll show then?” pressed Dolohov, in a smaller voice, as though he knew that he was irritating the other.

“He will show, or we will make good on killing everyone in that castle,” Yaxley said in a deadly solemn voice.

Harry almost tore the Cloak off and stopped them, demanding that they tell Harry where Voldemort was hiding out, so that Harry could force Voldemort to make good on his promise to not harm anyone else in the castle. Before Harry could do anything too rash, though, he saw the backs of the two Death Eaters before him straighten, and he knew that they were here.

The two stepped down into the grove, silent and respectful, and Harry froze. He hadn’t seen Voldemort, in person, in a while. He had hidden from him in the Shrieking Shack earlier, of course, but now he was here, before him. Harry took a breath in, despite trying to be calm and silent. Lord Voldemort was as imposing, bone white, skeletal, and snakelike as Harry recalled on the night at the Ministry. Draped in robes as black as night, holding the Elder Wand in his long, spidery fingers, he stood in the far back of the clearing which had once housed Aragog and his spawn. It seemed that Voldemort was counting the seconds until the hour was up, standing stock still with his eyes closed, while his followers milled around him as quietly as possible, seemingly terrified to disturb his vigil. Remnants of acromantula webs remained in tangled sheets from limbs so large Hagrid looked dwarfed standing among them.

_Hagrid_ , thought Harry with a jerk, and his heart broke more as he observed the half-giant standing in the trees, held by thick ropes and silenced either by magic or by waiting just as anxiously as everyone else for Harry to show himself or not. Hagrid would bear witness to what Harry would do tonight, and in a way that gave comfort to Harry. He just needed a moment, one last time to calm himself before stepping out to confront his nemesis. There was one last thing he had to do.

After moving a good ways away from the clearing, Harry reached into the moleskin pouch around his neck, retrieving the golden snitch that he had puzzled over for months. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips to the cool metal and whispered,

“I am about to die.”

As Harry opened his eyes, the snitch flipped open slowly, and within the ball, a familiar tiny gray stone lay, with the mark of the Peverells, of the Deathly Hallows. The one that Tom Riddle’s uncle had worn in his ring.

Hardly daring to breathe, he plucked the Resurrection Stone out of the snitch’s shell, depositing the now empty ball into the pouch once more. Rolling the stone around the palm of his right hand, he felt a change in the air, and glancing around, he almost burst into tears. All around him pale, hollow-looking personages of his family appeared. He smiled at his father, and James returned the grin, his eyes crinkling. He nearly ran to Sirius to hug him again, but was afraid that he would pass right through him. Remus looked at him kindly from beside Sirius, his scars no longer present now that he had passed on. Finally, his eyes went to his mother. Lily was as beautiful in death as she had been lovely in the memories he had seen of her just an hour ago. She reached out her hand to him, and this time he did run to her. He passed through her, as he suspected. None of them were tied to this life, but in a short while, neither would he. Harry was beginning to find comfort in that thought, now that those he had loved and longed for so deeply, for so long, were surrounding him.

“My son. Harry,” Lily said, and it was like honey melting into his skin.

“I’m going in there to meet him,” Harry said, and they all seemed to know what he meant.

“You’re nearly there, son,” said James. “We are so proud of you.”

“You’ve been so brave, through it all, sweetheart,” said his mother, and Harry felt his eyes water enough for a few tears to slip down his cheeks. He brushed them away, the Invisibility Cloak slipping gently against his hand. Staying near his mother, he turned to Remus.

“I’m so sorry, Remus. I didn’t want anyone to die—and Teddy, your son—” Harry tried to find the words through the lump forming in his throat.

“Others will tell him what his mother and father died for. It was a cause worth everything and more for him to grow up in a safer world,” said Remus. Harry didn’t know what else there was to say, so he nodded. Remus was right, this had always been bigger than anyone, and they had all known what could happen—they had lived through it together. Harry’s heart still ached for Teddy Lupin, to grow up not knowing such a kind and overcoming man and the carefree and passionate woman that Tonks was. He turned to Sirius, then.

His godfather looked his healthy and handsome self in the afterlife that he would have been if not for years wasted in Azkaban. Harry was at a loss for words. Of all those around him, he missed Sirius the most. He could only find it in himself to ask one question.

“Does it hurt?” asked Harry, trying to keep his shaking voice even.

“Dying? Quicker and easier than falling asleep,” said Sirius, bracingly. Harry sniffed, and gave Sirius a small smile. Sirius reached out and ruffled Harry’s hair, or that’s what it felt like. Harry gave a little watery chuckle, before turning back to his parents. James had moved closer to Lily, and there were silent tears streaming down Lily’s face. James had an arm around her waist. Harry walked to stand in front of them, and Lily reached out to cup his face.

Harry could feel they were out of time. He glanced back towards the clearing, but it was still just as hushed as he had left it. He could feel his heart pick up the pace, his hands growing clammy despite the calming atmosphere that his family had brought with them. He swallowed thickly, meeting his parents’ eyes and glancing between them.

“You’ll stay with me? He won’t be able to see you?” he whispered anxiously.

“Until the end,” promised Lily. He studied her face for a last long moment.

With a final firm nod, Harry allowed the stone to drop at his feet, and the shadows of his family departed. He took a deep breath, reaffirming that they were still around him, within him. Love. The power that Voldemort knows not. Now, if only it could be enough.

Harry approached the clearing once more, with more purpose and conviction than before. At the lip above the pit where the Death Eaters, Hagrid, Nagini in her protective bubble, and Voldemort were all gathered, he quietly let the Invisibility Cloak to slide from his head, off of his shoulders, and into his hand. He wouldn’t need it from here on in.

The attention that rained down upon him was nearly instantaneous. Yaxley sprang from where he was seated with a gasp. Bellatrix shrieked with surprise and glee. Hagrid, magically silenced after all, beat against his restraints, and the tree holding him creaked in protest. There were at least a few dozen wands trained on him in the next moment. As quickly as everything exploded into cacophony, it dissipated into a hush once more—even Bellatrix, her breast heaving in anticipation, waited for Voldemort to react.

Through everything, Harry’s attention was only for Voldemort. He had no doubts and no fear about what was to come. He was fully invested and confronted his enemy with a clear focus. Voldemort’s body remained motionless. Harry watched as those red eyes opened slowly, revealing dark pupils; slits filled with curiosity. Harry watched as those eyes followed his deliberate skid down the short lip of the ridge and purposeful walk to the darkest sorcerer of the age, stopping just short of ten feet away.

It truly felt as though it were just the two of them in that space, despite the dozens of people surrounding them. Harry stared boldly into those crimson eyes until Voldemort dragged his gaze downward and up—from Harry’s muddied shoes, to his torn and dirt-covered jeans; taking in his marked-up sweatshirt, and tousled mess of black hair. Their eyes met again, burning red to vivid green. When Voldemort spoke, it was piercingly high and as cold as it had ever been; a carrying, evil tone.

“The Boy Who Lived, come to die.” Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, directing it at Harry, and tilting his head, considering.

Harry braced himself, willing but tense.

“But why?” continued Voldemort. It seemed like everyone had been holding their breath and just released it in confusion. Everyone around them seemed to be coiled so tightly, as tense as Harry felt.

“After all this time of cowardice, do you truly come forward? Why do you choose to give in after all the running?” Voldemort asked, the Elder Wand not wavering from where it pointed at Harry through the air. A moment of silence reigned, and Harry felt expected to fill it.

“I guess I just got tired,” said Harry stiffly, trying to meet his eyes again, but afraid that Voldemort would see right through him. He stared at the tip of the Elder Wand instead, forcing his face to remain blank. Why wasn’t Voldemort cursing him, firing that familiar vibrant green right at his face and ending it all?

“Tired of fighting, of resisting the inevitable,” said Voldemort knowingly, nodding slighty.

Harry just stared at him. It didn’t matter what he said, he just needed Voldemort to kill him, and if he was going to monologue, Harry wasn’t having it. Not after everything he just went through in the last few hours; what everyone had sacrificed to stand up this tyrant.

“No last words, Harry?” laughed Voldemort lightly. They both hadn’t moved, but a few of the Death Eaters gave hesitant chuckles.

Harry could feel that Voldemort was up to something. His scar was conspicuously silent and painless. Harry sucked in a breath, and slowly released it.

Voldemort straightened his back even further, making himself taller, if that was possible.

“No,” he said, as he lowered the wand. Harry’s eyes widened. What was he playing at?

“You are a foolhardy coward, Harry Potter,” spat Voldemort, and Harry remained silent, the Invisibility Cloak in his shaking fist.

“I expected you to come here, but not like this...So accepting...So brave...I imagine your Mudblood mother would be proud of her son standing so strongly against me, the most powerful wizard in this world. I, the wielder of the Elder Wand. You, Harry, will not thwart me again. I will ask you this once more...” his crimson eyes were blazing.

“What are you concealing from me?” and Harry should have appreciated the reprieve from the pain in his scar while he could, because it was on fire now. His knees almost buckled under the splitting agony cleaving his forehead in two.

“Harry,” Voldemort softly chided, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at his closeness. He had moved nearer to him while Harry had been fighting against the skull-splitting headache washing over his head in waves. Long fingers wove into his hair, and Harry’s eyes watered as Voldemort’s clawed fingers pulled his scalp roughly. The hand that gripped his hair forced his head back so his neck was exposed at an unreasonable angle.

“What do you know, Harry Potter?” asked Voldemort, in a frighteningly amused voice.

Harry, although dazed from the pain still ricocheting around his head, tried to pull free. There surely was a hot iron pressing against his forehead, crushing his spirit and obliterating his thoughts.

“Kill me,” Harry said through the rolling pain. “You wanted me. Here I am.”

“I did want you, Harry, true, and indeed, here you are. Only, I had expected a sniveling boy, whining for his life. You foolishly continue to adopt Gryffindor bravery, similarly to your worthless parents, and if there is a mistake to be made, I will not make it. You see, Harry, I am more cunning. I knew you would come; it is all a part of my plan to unfold a grand new world order over the wizarding community. One where blood purity is imperative to our survival and traditions that have fallen to the wayside are taught and respected by all. I sense a ruse, Harry, and I will not be taken for a fool. You will tell me the rest of the prophecy that you cost me, and then we will end your life as I see fit, because the Light must suffer for its transgressions against me. Their symbol cannot survive the night.”

Harry grunted against the hold on his scalp. “You lost the prophecy, and I never heard it. Dumbledore and Snape were the only two who heard it, why don’t you ask them?” asked Harry, perhaps a bit too smugly.

Voldemort growled and threw Harry to the Forest floor. “I killed Severus Snape just as I killed Albus Dumbledore! I continue to live while they met their downfall, at my orchestration!” hissed Voldemort. Several of the members surrounding them shifted at the mention of Snape’s murder. Harry thought he got the gist of that discomfort: if one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted and closely favored could be killed, was there any hope for anyone’s longevity?

Harry was starting to get desperate, because Voldemort was treading near some topics that could not be breached. What did he have to do— _goad_ Voldemort into killing him? Harry never thought he would be in a situation where he would have to convince the Dark Lord to kill him.

“If you’re so powerful, why don’t you prove it? You haven’t managed to off me yet. I’ve survived. I’m a testament to the farce that is everything you stand for, Tom,” stated Harry savagely.

He did not get the response he was expecting, however. Voldemort became oddly still, as if in wonder at his insolence, and with a small flick of his wand aimed a wordless _crucio_ in his direction, which Harry rolled out of the way of. The next curse that flew towards him, Harry was not so lucky to evade, and writhed on the ground, his skin and bones melting and merging into one another before separating completely—his scar’s pain lost in the consuming fire of the curse.

When Voldemort let up after what felt like minutes, but what could only have been a few seconds, Harry was on his hands and knees, pushing the lingering burn of his scar against the cool dampness of the dirt. After a moment, he forced himself up, shaking with the curse’s aftershocks. Voldemort’s red eyes followed him.

“Why do you live, Harry?” asked Voldemort quietly.

“Because my mother sacrificed herself for me,” said Harry fiercely, ignoring the jeers and derisive hisses of the Death Eaters. “Because she loved me more than her own survival. Her blood runs in your veins, because you couldn’t stop taking from me—her blood—but it’s tainted in you,” Harry sneered. Then, after a moment of thought, he conceded,

“I’ll tell you the prophecy, you stupid snake,” he heard Bellatrix snarl somewhere to his left, “but it won’t change anything.” He was sure that it wouldn’t, for Voldemort had already acted on it, and that idiotic act had ruined Harry’s life.

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment. He had become a human statue, and Harry was starting to lose his nerve, trying very hard not to look in Hagrid’s direction, or any of the others’, for that matter. He didn’t want to know what they were thinking or how they felt. It wasn’t supposed to matter. He was already supposed to be dead.

“Then let us go, Harry,” said Voldemort softly, his scarlet eyes not giving anything away. Harry’s scar was suspiciously calm again.

“What?” asked Harry, confused.

“Walk with me,” ordered Voldemort, and he must not view Harry as an equal, because he turned his back and swept away, his black robes a shadow over the thistle-covered ground.

Harry stood dumbfounded in the pit behind him, and he could feel the eyes that combed over his stance. He was sure that at least some of the surrounding Death Eaters were in awe of him not following after their Master immediately, while others were chomping at the bit to discipline him in respect. Voldemort had reached the top of the pit on the other side to where Harry had come in, when he paused and waited.

Harry drew his shoulders up, and walked shakily after Voldemort, the surrounding Death Eaters parting for him.

“My Lord!” called a frantic voice, and Harry almost gagged in anger and disgust at the need in it. He turned from Voldemort’s steady gaze on his movements towards Bellatrix, to look at her imploring face looking between Voldemort and Harry, distrust of Harry evident in those brown eyes. Harry itched to curse her. How dare she live while Sirius was—and then he thought of how Sirius looked, surrounded by his best friends in the afterlife, and he couldn’t find it in him to want him to be here when he could have that peace and happiness. His hatred of Bellatrix did not abate, though. She was a wretched person.

“Stay with Nagini, and keep that miserable oaf quiet,” Voldemort said dismissively, and the last part with distaste. “We will return. There are some things that we must discuss privately before I destroy Harry here with all of you to bear witness.” Several of his followers nodded reverently. Bellatrix still looked distrustfully at Harry, who tried to aim all of his hate into his glare at her. She just ended up smirking at him, before turning to Voldemort and saying with reverence so sickeningly sweet, 

“Yes, my Lord.”

_Nice_ , thought Harry, very nearly rolling his eyes while also trying to push the worry for Hagrid out of his mind, turning back to see Voldemort’s unwavering stare on his face. He felt his hair stand on end. It was more than a bit unnerving to be under that kind of intense attention from someone who was so cruel.

Harry made it up the shallow slope to Voldemort’s side—grudgingly wondering how the older wizard had made it look like he had glided up, before being irked at the realization that Voldemort may have _actually_ glided—but kept a bit of space between them. Voldemort’s intense stare on his face didn’t let up, and when his long white hand reached out towards him, Harry looked at the outstretched fingers with utter confusion and revulsion, until he realized that Voldemort wanted him to hand over the Invisibility Cloak. Reluctantly, Harry handed it over, watching as Voldemort folded it and put it into his inner robe pocket. Harry felt a pang of loss as he watched it disappear. The burning gaze came up to his face again, and then Voldemort turned his back once more and began to walk into a deeper part of the Dark Forest that Harry had never explored before. Harry took a breath and followed the monster.

It was as untamed as the path that he and Hermione took to their first visit to Grawp, but Voldemort just pushed his magic out like a scythe and cleared a narrow path for them to go into, not breaking stride. Harry shivered every time Voldemort cast his magic out, never having been so close to him while he was casting regular magic, instead of brutal curses. He chalked that up to the Horcrux in himself reacting to being so close to its own magical source.

When they had reached another clearing, Harry resisted his feeling of surprise that threatened to show itself. The clearing was covered in dark mosses and strange pale blue lights that glowed in and out of notice like lightning bugs. Voldemort’s towering, dark figure looked very out of place indeed when he was standing in the center of the deep green surroundings and twinkling blue of fairy lights. Harry, though, probably looked just out of place with his disheveled appearance, although less menacing.

“Now, Harry,” said Voldemort, and Harry was struggling to control his features, namely to keep them clear of anger and nerves since Voldemort was taking all of these extra steps before killing him. What did the prophecy matter, if the other man just intended to kill him anyway? Harry decided to ask as much, if the Dark Lord was going to play games.

“Why won’t you just kill me? What does it matter what a prophecy says when you’ve already acted on it?” bit out Harry, trying not to shake with the fury building, threatening to spew out.

“It spelled my downfall,” answered Voldemort deliberately.

“You only heard half of it,” said Harry drily, barely holding onto the last thread of his diplomacy.

“Perhaps the other half is indicative as to how you continue to escape unscathed,” said Voldemort shrewdly, raising a single hairless eyebrow.

“Unscathed,” Harry scoffed. He was getting a headache that had nothing to do with his scar. “You know what, let’s get this over with. Although,” he said, looking around and getting more annoyed and infuriated by Voldemort thwarting _his_ plan for once, “is there any particular reason why we had to come into the farthest corner of the Forest to have this talk?”

His raised his green eyes then to Voldemort’s, about to say something else, but Voldemort wasted no time taking advantage of his eye contact to rip into Harry’s mind. It was violent, and the memories flew past him by the thousands as Voldemort dug deeper and deeper with a vigor to find something...something...Harry, fatigued by the mental toll, quickly fell into the void.

Harry came back into awareness on the ground, panting, and thankful for the cushion of the moss. He felt a tickle on his forehead, and reached up to brush at his forehead. Wincing at the tenderness of his skin, he pulled he fingers away to see a smear of blood.

“Oh, Harry...” crooned Voldemort, and Harry recoiled from his voice, which was in his head and seemed to reverberate in the air around him. He looked up in a dazed confusion, and Voldemort seemed to glide into place above him, his dark robes whipping around him in a sudden wind, which Harry realized too late, wasn’t wind at all.

With a gut-twisting pull, Harry was forced to apparate away.


	2. Consider It Futile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry bargains for the lives of those who fought against Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that everyone is healthy and doing well. Onward.

Harry felt his feet touch solid ground hard, vibrating through his soles into his shins. He staggered and braced himself to fall, but felt a strong hand wrap hard around his forearm. He opened his eyes and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand on reflex, before his whirling mind caught up with the person—the monster—within the black robes in front of his face.

He raised his eyes to the face towering above him, meeting the pallid snakelike features and narrowing crimson eyes which were appraising him, and immediately began tugging his wrist back, attempting to free himself from Voldemort’s clamp on his arm.

“Let. Me. Go,” said Harry firmly, standing steadily on his own now, although his head was still swimming from coming into consciousness and then being forcibly ripped from the Hogwarts’ grounds.

“How the hell did you even apparate us out of the Forest? You can’t—apparate—in or out of—Hogwarts!” said Harry frantically—because this was _not_ happening—trying and failing to step around Voldemort or put any space between them. Every time he attempted to move in any direction, the Dark wizard would infuriatingly mirror him.

“Stop that!” shouted Harry, glaring up at the snakelike face, which looked extremely amused. In the back of Harry’s mind, he unnervingly felt that tickle of amusement warming their connection like a fading beam of sunlight. The feeling sent a disheartening ball of dread into the pit of his stomach—it was proof of what Harry had failed to accomplish in the Forest that evening, however long ago that had been.

He stole a glance to the window he could make out to the left of the room, over the back of a comfortable-looking couch. It was still dark, and he couldn’t make anything out through the glass. Harry was hit by a wave of exhaustion, as well as an immediate pang of guilt. He shouldn’t be thinking of resting, the fight was still on, and nowhere near over; he needed to stay alert. Whatever it took, he had to end the existence of the Horcrux within himself, find a way to kill Nagini, and then destroy the awful person before him. Putting those three together in an immediate agenda, it seemed impossible—especially given where he was, and who had Harry in his literal clutch.

Harry was trying to take in his surroundings, but was wary to glance anywhere that would take the Dark wizard out of his view. He didn’t see the Elder Wand anywhere at the moment, which was not as much of a relief as Harry would have liked it to be. He tore his eyes away from the featureless outdoors through the window, aiming them to bore as menacingly as he could muster into the red ones above him.

“Not interested in telling me where we are?” growled Harry. “Or how we were able to get here from where we were?” he asked, punctuating his query with another pull on his arm caught in the ridiculously strong grip of Voldemort. He was met with an intent gaze, serious and unblinking, as if the Dark Lord was perfectly content to just stare down at Harry and watch him squirm in his leaden grasp.

“Fine,” Harry blew out a breath. He could play games. “What will happen to those at the castle? I came to you in the Forest. They won’t be touched. I want your guarantee.” Harry stared fearlessly, recklessly, into those bloody eyes which, even in near darkness, were so full of wicked amusement they almost _danced_.

Still, Voldemort said nothing.

“Feel like speaking sometime? Normally, you can’t shut yourself up,” muttered Harry, twisting his wrist experimentally against the thumb of Voldemort’s hand. The fingers wrapped around his thin wrist so completely, this did nothing. Frustrated, Harry reached out with his free hand to attempt to pry the long fingers off of him. His hand was met with an invisible barrier and a shock that ran up his wrist.

Harry hissed in pain, refusing to meet Voldemort’s eyes again to witness the mirth and satisfaction that was surely there now that Harry had proven that he couldn’t escape a simple hold and visibly frustrated about it. The slight glowing feeling at the back of his skull morphed into a sparking irritation.

“You truly are weak, Harry,” said Voldemort disparagingly, and Harry couldn’t help but snap his gaze back into those pitiless slits. The irritation now mixed with a flicker of that amused, satisfied glow. Harry realized with disgust that Voldemort was enjoying this power over him, of course he was, the bastard.

“Your guarantee,” snapped Harry.

“You do not have it, Harry,” Voldemort said calmly, with a simple air, as if in answer to a child’s question about the weather. Harry bristled, and it must have physically shown, because Voldemort actually smirked.

“I held up the end of our deal. I showed up,” said Harry, as calmly as he could under the extreme stress he was experiencing. A stress that felt like it could simultaneously make him throw up and turn him inside out.

“There was no deal, Harry,” said Voldemort again, with that same sickening calmness, his thin lips quirking a bit, showing the smallest amount of his sharp teeth. Harry’s head started shaking back and forth, in a mixture of disbelief and maybe just hoping that if he shook his head enough he would wake from this awful dream, this terrible nightmare, into some reality.

“No,” he said, trying to hold back the desperation threatening to burst forth and wreck his composure. He grit his teeth, feeling his jaw muscles working.

“Yesss,” came the hissed response. The red eyes flickered in excitement, relished Harry’s distress, drunk it in with every steep breath Harry took.

“Stop messing with me,” said Harry in breathless horror. _What had he done?_

“Absolutely not,” said Voldemort, and dropped the captive wrist. Harry had fallen into a dread-filled numbness, and didn’t register his limb’s newfound freedom, or the bruise marks that now encircled his wrist.

Realization slowly sank into him: he might not return to his friends; they wouldn’t know what had happened to him, and they, too, may end up falling under further attack because, what, Harry hadn’t gotten Voldemort to _vow_ about stopping further attacks indefinitely when he had his forces retreat? Yet, Harry had gone and done what had been requested of him, no questions asked, because an _ex-Death Eater_ had gone and told him about his love for Harry’s mother. _Fantastic_. _Yes—fantastically idiotic._

Harry began to lose control of his breaths.

“My, Harry, your anxious mind certainly is not a bore, glum though it may be,” Voldemort said.

Harry didn’t deign that with an answer, but instead wished with all his heart that Severus Snape was still alive so he could kick his ass—pushing any guilt roused from such thoughts about the dead man aside in favor of righteous, grounding anger—for not attempting to teach him Occlumency properly, foolish though Harry had been during those lessons in his fifth year at Hogwarts.

“Stay _out_ of my head,” griped Harry bitterly, as he rubbed his freed wrist. “You have me, for now. Swear the safety of those in Hogwarts, including those who opposed you. Stay true to your word, Tom.” Harry wasn’t meeting his opponent’s eyes this time, in favor of speaking sternly to the floor.

“Oh, Harry, I know I have you,” the wicked voice drifted into his ears like a sibilant hiss. “Not just for now. We were not meant to have such a fleeting moment in time together. No…I will have you…endlessly.”

Harry felt his heart and face go cold, as if his organs were abandoning him. The other wizard said it so simply, so truthfully.

_Endlessly._

Some words held a certain weight, a certain meaning that is difficult to interpret any other way.

_I will have you…_ endlessly.

These words had the flavor of Voldemort knowing certain details about where his soul may be residing. Harry felt as his heart leapt back to life—the thumping of the organ was pounding loud through the space between them, and there was no hiding anymore, if the Dark Lord truly had learned everything—and his hands immediately began to perspire.

“Their safety, Tom,” said Harry firmly. He wished he could draw on those spirant tones of Parseltongue just as easily, to put them on even footing in this conversation, so Voldemort didn’t see him as defeated, because Harry was far from it. He would go down fighting, since the sacrificial lamb bit didn’t go over the way he had hoped.

“I have no doubts that Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape had great plans for this night,” sighed Voldemort, beginning to pace back and forth in front of Harry, as if touting a debrief of a great victory he had won.

_Not yet,_ thought Harry viciously.

“For you to attempt this irreconcilable mission against me has taken great bravery… Some may prize such traits,” he smirked at this, as though inspired by a private joke, “but I, great Heir to Salazar Slytherin, see it for the folly that it is. Foolhardy bravery leads only to a premature death, and favors a lack of intelligence, allowing for inevitable loopholes which can only benefit another party.” Voldemort stopped his pacing and turned his serpentine face to Harry.

“I am not your enemy, Harry. We are one and the same.”

“Wha—We are nothing alike!” burst out Harry, angry that Voldemort could even suggest such a thing and keep a straight face.

“What do you think is happening here? Do you think I’ll just listen to your views because you pitch an argument saying, what, you _understand?_ ” Harry asked incredulously, more than a bit suspicious of Voldemort’s angle. The Dark Lord had spouted a lot of abuse in no favor to Harry in the past, so he felt justified in his mistrust. That, and he was a mass murdering sod.

The Dark Lord did what he did best: he ignored any reasonable position Harry took in an argument.

“Are we not?” whispered Voldemort, a stoic mask in place over his anger which Harry felt steadily blossom. That was the only assurance Harry had to convince himself that the man he was talking to was not actually whistling to a different tune than he had for the last seven years of Harry’s life, if not his entire life—there were gaps in their interactions—and was, in fact, still extremely furious with him.

“You are a tragedy, Harry,” said Voldemort sharply, probably more sharply than he had intended.

“Thanks,” muttered Harry, unsure if the other had meant that as an insult, or was finally catching on to the pattern of misery that seemed to catch Harry at every turn.

He hoped that his glances around the room were surreptitious enough as he looked for a good escape route. Harry guessed he was keeping a low enough profile, or Voldemort considered him to be the pinnacle of incompetence, despite his several wily and successful escapes from the other man in the past, because the other wizard launched into what he probably thought was a very persuasive point, without missing a beat over Harry’s comment.

“A utilized young man with magical talent, although hardly comparable to my own,”—Harry nearly rolled his eyes—“yet still marked as an equal to myself by Fate. Now you must choose. Not for the first time, I, Lord Voldemort, merciful as I have always been, am giving you an _opportunity_. Declare your loyalty to me, your fealty to me, your magic to me, and I will spare those you care so deeply for in Hogwarts—no matter their position in opposition of myself, so long as those actionable views are discontinued moving forward. I am an inevitable force, a reckoning for the Wizarding World, Harry. If you see things my way, if you stop this ridiculous opposition, so futile, so painful, I will spare those who fought with that foolish, irresponsible _bravery_ against me tonight. No one will have to suffer further for the cause that they have supported tonight, so long as they see things the right way, and fall into the new age of magical unity. They will be guided through the transition, of course. I desire nothing less than for us to truly form a community and emerge from this strife ever more strengthened and emboldened by the truth of what is our most logical path forward.”

Throughout this speech, Harry felt the passion and truth that Voldemort believed, although it was tinged with something bitter, like…lies.

“You’re the worst,” said Harry bluntly. “There is truly nothing redeemable within you.”

Voldemort’s eyes, which had brightened considerably during his unification victory speech, brimming with the hopefulness that the Light’s symbol would join him effortlessly, because it was the obvious choice, now darkened again in anger. Harry’s scar prickled warningly.

“I think that you should take this deal, which is a true one this time, Harry. It would mean the difference in keeping your friends’ and supporters’ safety that you so wretchedly desire, ensured, versus an effortless slaughter of those feeble-minded few who dare to oppose me. It is the only one I will be making with you, Harry,” said Voldemort dangerously.

“You’re so self-assured, it’s sickening. You actually sicken me, physically,” seethed Harry. His eyes were darting around the room now, looking for a way out that wouldn’t immediately be blocked by Voldemort. There was a door behind Voldemort that practically screamed to Harry’s gut instinct that it was the way out. The window was surely magically reinforced and warded, but maybe not the door. The fireplace was behind Harry, but there was no chance he would get the opportunity to get to see if there was a container of Floo Powder somewhere on the mantle. Not to mention Voldemort was watching his mind and body like a hawk, or rather, a snake that was ready and willing to strike—just not, most unfortunately, fatally.

Faces of his friends flashed unbidden through his mind, so unwanted at this juncture, that he was highly suspicious that Voldemort had something to do with it. Harry shook that thought away, though, because Voldemort couldn’t touch his happiness or memories like that for long without feeling pain himself.

_Great, so I really am just torturing myself_. _How comforting,_ thought Harry, with a deep self-loathing.

Flashes of red hair, followed by bushy brown; familiar smiles, and the feeling of being embraced by people who truly cared, some of whom would never hold him again, because of this night—because of the man before him who chose his side over their lives.

_Magical unity…yeah, right,_ Harry wanted to scream in the other’s flattened face.

Harry drew in a deep breath. He still hadn’t looked at Voldemort, but now he lifted his gaze with deliberate intensity, full of the backing of all the love he had for those who stood by him, who lived to make this world better for their families and others, as Remus had said.

“If you truly believe the rhetoric that you just tried to sway me with, Tom, then you will spare everyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts tonight,” said Harry with deliberate enunciation in every syllable.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed with recognition that he was being reprimanded, called on his tactics by the one person who could feel every emotion in real time and make accurate judgment on his sincerity or falsehoods. Although, it was still Harry’s speculation that Voldemort knew that he, Harry, was a Horcrux, the guarded, tactical way in which Voldemort had approached him since apparating into this room was a pretty solid indicator, which meant that Harry was royally screwed.

“Harry, have I ever lied to you?” asked Voldemort in a disgusting take on an innocent tone, which did not fit the serpentine face before him, a blatant attempt to appeal to Harry’s empathy in such an unconvincing way.

“Yes, numerous times. Not least of which was when you sent me a vision—”

“That was a blunder brought on by third party interference,“ countered Voldemort quickly.

“Of Sirius being tortured in the Department of Mysteries—” Harry pressed on, cuttingly.

“A tragic accident that he ended up being there,” said Voldemort, in a clinical, unaffected way. As though he weren’t the sole reason that anyone was at the Ministry that night, Order Member or Death Eater.

“Because of _you_!” exploded Harry, and he hated how his voice broke, and he hated Voldemort, and he hated that he was alone when he had no idea of the fate of those he loved the most in all this world. His heart gave a stab as he thought about his friends not being okay, not surviving…because it would be his fault.

No.

He had had enough of Voldemort’s twists on reality, enough of having to fight his enemy to stop trying to convince him to rewrite his own history of horrors, which would ultimately just dilute the sacrifice that Remus and Tonks and Fred and all the others had made for the war effort against the monster which had made him such an aggrieved mess since his first year on earth.

Voldemort had taken the most heinously insincere stance possible as Harry seethed and reminisced on the most painful aspects of his life. If Voldemort sincerely was expecting, even under the most minuscule delusion, that Harry would stand by him and say, with a straight face, that what the madman was doing wasn’t so bad—even if it meant the redemption of the lives of those he loved to be able to survive in the coming days, under a hateful regime—then the Dark Lord had another thing coming to him.

Voldemort tipped his long throat back and let out a laugh. Whether the laughter was genuine or for effect, it had a profound effect on Harry. The Boy Who Lived immediate saw red bleed into his vision, and knew hatred and violence alone. For a moment, thrown within the horrors of his past by that wretched sound tearing through the empty air, an emanating thunderclap of magic startled both Harry out of his powerful rage and shocked Voldemort into silence. The older wizard had reflexively thrown up a shield, which had resounded from the force of the yellow curse that had shot out in a tidal wave of Harry’s unrestrained magical power, called forth at the mere sound of Voldemort’s horribly high, cold, despicable laughter. Just as quickly as the room had been illuminated with the spell’s vibrancy, it faded, and the shadows became deeper shades of black as Harry’s eyes readjusted. When he blinked, he was met with a cleared expression and silently calculating eyes, which were not so much impressed, as they were furious.

Voldemort was infuriated that Harry was alive, would live, for whatever reason—hopefully not the Horcrux one—with such power at his disposal, however uncontrolled as it was. Voldemort boiled over with resentful malignance that Harry Potter would live not just an indefinite life—Merlin, help, it really seemed like it might be the Horcrux reason—but another minute.

They lapsed into a tense silence. The air seemed to thicken between them in a non-magical way. Voldemort was an intense person in the calmest of situations; his hostility had not only increased tenfold, but his gaze held Harry’s with something so malignant, so baneful, that it almost scorched Harry’s skin. He would need little convincing that Voldemort’s silent glare from five feet away could burn him to dust, eradicate him from the earth. Harry would be relieved, if only that being turned to ash would mean he would be removed from this room.

There were unspoken words, uncomfortable for either to think too certainly, but it was there, resting in solid truth between them: _I can’t stop what can’t be killed_.

For Harry’s troubles, Voldemort still had three Horcruxes, not least problematic of which was Harry himself. The man across from him, on the other hand, hated Harry to such a degree that there was no doubt keeping him alive was weighing on Voldemort greatly.

So there they stood, close enough to feel each other’s willingness to perish for a cause and the other unwilling to destroy himself even if it would mean finishing his enemy—if he indeed did know that Harry was more than a pawn pitched between the two Machiavellian campaigns of the Second Wizarding War.

As irritating as Ron’s radio habits had been to Harry when the three of them were on the Horcrux hunt, Harry did end up gleaning just how many people, both Muggle and Magical, had been impacted by the unrest in their world. Yet here he was, facing off with the one who had started it all—the most feared Dark wizard in all of Britain—not five feet in front of him, and he had nothing to do but wait out whatever punishment or vexation Voldemort had in store for him.

Harry knew Voldemort appeared stoic, but his scar was stinging horribly, giving him warning that all was not as well as it appeared on the surface. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying not to draw attention to any movement that he made, but nothing escaped the notice of Voldemort, who darted his narrowed eyes to Harry’s feet in much the same way that a coiled serpent would strike at a passing mouse after it had lain in wait for a long while.

“Okay, it’s getting a bit creepy now,” sighed Harry, hoping to ease any of the tension within this infernal room, lest they stand here the whole night. The first lightening of the sky was showing, a pale orange bleeding into the midnight blue, chasing away the undefined black of the night. Harry’s brow crinkled at that, and wondered at the time. He glanced back at Voldemort, whose scrupulous gaze was examining Harry’s face like he was plotting a course to cut it off of him. Harry swallowed and slid his gaze to a bookshelf to Voldemort’s right.

Harry could feel the familiar tendrils of desperation beginning to make a grab at his insides. He didn’t know why he felt like he was running out of time, but he had learned to trust his instincts over the years, which more often than not had saved his life.

“Tom,” Harry began in a more tentative way than the last, hoping to appeal to something that Voldemort would want in return for the lives in the castle, if they were still alive, if Voldemort hadn’t somehow ordered an attack from here, or had a contingency plan if he didn’t return with Harry from their stroll in the Forest.

When Harry lifted his gaze once more a thrill sped down his spine at the feral smile gracing the horrible features of Lord Voldemort.

“You have nothing to bargain with, Harry. Stop trying,” the snake said wickedly, his hairless face blank, and yet no less threatening or sinister. Harry wished he knew what to do with his hands; he was just rubbing them against the sides of his jeans and fiddling with his pockets. He didn’t know where his wand went—he thought with a jolt. He honestly hoped that Voldemort had taken Draco’s old wand from his possession rather than it being lost to the Forest floor. Struck with this new feeling of loss and anxious panic at being disarmed brought about a feeling of exposure that mentally made Harry’s situation so much more despairingly different in the moments that separated ignorance from that cold realization that he had no weapon to escape with.

Harry’s mind felt like it was being pulled in two directions—paying attention to the mass murderer in front of him, and wondering how to fight him off, if it inevitably came to that. Things were not looking good on the escape front.

Harry swallowed again, and Voldemort, missing nothing, traced its bobbing movement with glee, which of course did not bleed through his composed mask of indifference, but which came clearly through the Horcrux, which, now more than ever, made Harry feel as though he were becoming unhinged, being so in tune with emotions that were not his own, most likely because of their proximity. He wasn’t getting glances into the world of Lord Voldemort; he was experiencing every puerile sensation that the man had. The confounded headache that had been manifesting itself in the Forest was returning, tenfold.

Voldemort may insist that Harry had nothing left, and that he should stop trying, but he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and that had always meant something to people. He was the symbol; he was the legend. Which meant that he always had something.

With newfound confidence that he could find a way out of this situation, Harry made to open his mouth to speak, but the breath was caught in his throat as Voldemort beat him to it, as if he anticipated the second wave of defiance. He probably did, being faced with Harry Potter. They knew each other well, despite what Harry wished.

“I have sifted through your useless, unguarded mind. I have found all that you were going to do. I have found all that you have seen yesterday and in the past year. I know all that you expected to happen, and even if just for once, I am glad to say that you, Harry Potter, have not thwarted me. In this way, the most important way, you have not.” Voldemort paused here and allowed his unwavering, slitted eyes to drag over every part of Harry’s face again, and—Harry’s heart leapt to his throat in trepidation—lingered on the scar, which was filled with that irritating sensation of being scratched from the inside. Their eyes met again, and Harry was so on edge, he couldn’t help the feeling of uneasiness seeping into every corner of his body and mind.

_He knows_. It wasn’t a question anymore. He had just said he had seen everything. He knew it all, now. He knew about Harry’s hunting of Horcruxes, and it was no small wonder _why_ Voldemort was looking at him as though he wanted to shear his skin off of him. Breaking down someone’s soul that they thought was kept safe all over the country was not exactly a cheerful draw.

“See the way that Fate favors Lord Voldemort, Harry?” asked Voldemort, his head tilting, considering Harry as if he might disagree, or as if he actually cared to hear Harry’s opinion on the matter.

_It would be nice if She could favor me every once in a while. I at least try to do the right thing,_ thought Harry with a stab of resentment.

“The right thing,” sneered Voldemort. “Really, Harry. There is no right and wrong, no more than there is good and evil in this world.”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Head. Tom,” grit out Harry. “You have no right, you stupid—you terrible bastard.” Harry grasped onto a flash of Hermione’s bushy hair in his memory and held on, allowing his emotions to flood with the feeling of loss and his tiredness and his anger that all of this strife which could have been avoided if Tom Riddle wasn’t so damn afraid of his own human nature.

Voldemort blinked, and looked every bit like his emotions would sway with amusement, they gave every indication, even the Horcrux began to flare with that slight lightness that reminded Harry of the orange glow that was steadily growing more prominent through the window as night was chased in favor of the spreading dawn. Harry should have known better, having dealt with manic people his entire life—madness is rarely predictable.

Fury burst forth, almost like an implosion. Harry’s scar had him hitting the floor and curling on himself, his only grace against the blackness of the anger that barraged him.

“Stop!” Harry managed to yell through the pain splintering his mind. “Tom, stop! Stop!” He clutched at his tangle of hair, desperately trying to stave it off, to distract himself from the consuming pain tearing voraciously through his own mind, but couldn’t feel his own violent pulls over the damning force.

The pain dissipated, although Harry did think that it was only because Voldemort wanted to leer over him and gloat.

“I quite like the sound of you begging for my mercy, Harry. It is something that I confess I would never have thought to hear in this life, long though it will be. You made it far too easy, truly. Are you saying that you cannot resist the same anger you have been privy to for almost three years?” the Dark Lord chided.

Harry leaned up on his forearms, shaken, and realized with dread that he could barely push himself up. He glared at Voldemort over his shoulder, and Voldemort gave him an equally derisive sneer.

“No, Harry, you are quite correct to be frightened of my power over you. I am certain you have—though, admittedly, to a lesser degree of understanding—witnessed a heightened sense of my control over you, if only just since we have arrived here. No doubt because of the piece of my soul, which resides within you.” Voldemort’s eyes positively gleamed in their fervor, as if he were seeing a new Harry Potter lain out at his feet. He took a step forward, and Harry had not the strength to move away, his worn body trembling in uncontrollable spasms from muscle fatigue, and possibly, magical exhaustion from his outburst.

“Yes, the mark given the night I struck you with the Killing Curse, I see in a different light now. It is the testament to my act, which simultaneously brought about our two predestined results. The night which destroyed my original body and brought you your undue prestige was a harrowing one, and one which was rectified when I regained my human form using the blood magic, which you so fluently described as your mother’s sacrifice— _tainted_ , was it, Harry, in me?” Voldemort’s eyes glinted, and Harry felt the pain redouble with sudden and violent force. He winced, but it was over in a flash; Lord Voldemort had made his point. It seemed he was bent on making points tonight, seeking retribution now that he had attained his answers. The Dark wizard in front of him may refuse to kill him from now on, but Harry had still managed to turn the Dark’s plans on their head. Harry rested his forehead against the floorboards, seeking a reprieve from the aftereffects of his scar’s flare.

In the glow of the new early morning sunlight, giving up on his attempts to push himself up in the hope that his strength would return after a brief rest, rolled onto his back at the Dark Lord’s feet. He felt something unfamiliar tickle at the back of his mind, and he realized that he had taken the older wizard off guard. Harry’s eyes were closed but he could feel the intent focus on his face. Now was his chance, he could feel it.

“I thought you wanted to off me in front of your followers. Won’t they be missing you?” Harry asked in what he hoped came off flippantly. He hoped to be whisked back to Hogwarts, escape, and relay the events of this evening to at least Ron and Hermione, who could continue the hunt for the final piece of Voldemort’s soul, while he searched for a sure-fire way to destroy the hitchhiking soul piece within him. Only then could they worry about Nagini and Voldemort himself. Harry wanted to rub his scar, but could hardly lift his arm.

“You think me so incompetent a leader that my Death Eaters would determine a course separate from the one I gave when I—” Voldemort started in, the fury building at a towering rate. Harry tried to stem the flow of maleficence before he was the likely recipient.

“Whoa, hey, I was just wondering if there were any loose cannons—” _One loose cannon in particular,_ Harry thought, thinking of Bellatrix’s abhorrent capabilities off-leash. “I’m worried about the people in Hogwarts, and I’m not going to be idle until I know that they are safe,” Harry insisted with his eyes still closed, sensing the man above him. He was tired, but his mind was alert.

Voldemort’s scoff drew his eyes open once more.

“What do you call this, then?” a white hand waved a gesture over Harry’s lying form. “The savior, sprawled at the Dark Lord’s feet? In your proper place,” said Voldemort with a tinge of something that had Harry, body protesting, rolling to the side as a curse—blood red—shot into the floor where he had just been lying. Harry shot a glare at the Dark wizard from his crouch, a tremor rolled through his body. He had definitely pulled something.

The Elder Wand, finally having made its unwelcome, but not unanticipated, appearance was being held lazily by the Dark Lord, dangling from his long fingers, looking every bit as though it were about to fall. Harry saw through that act, though. He wasn’t naïve. Voldemort had bruised his arm in an unassailable grip not half an hour ago. Those hands were nimble and strong.

“They will wait for me so long as I tell them to. Shall I call them here?” asked Voldemort snidely, his eyes blazed with the challenge.

Harry pulled a face at that, and barely resisted a shudder. Bravery was his strong suit, thankfully, even faked.

“I’ll get away, and it will be just like last summer. I’ll be on the run, and you will never find me,” asserted Harry, proud to hear that his voice barely wavered.

“I assure you, Harry, though you may try to get away, I will not allow you,” vowed Voldemort, a dark promise which none-too subtly outlined the plans for Harry’s doom. The smug confidence made Harry want to hit him.

“Allow me, will you? You’ve only dictated my entire life, why would now be any different?” barbed Harry, firing up at once.

“You petulant child. You are now under my _protection_ ,” growled the Dark Lord, as though he were begrudged to admit it. Harry, already about the retort, almost gagged in surprise.

“What are you talking about, Tom?” asked Harry warily.

“I’ve seen your mind and it’s full of marvelous things, Harry,” murmured Voldemort in fascination, with an unexpected reverence that made Harry’s skin crawl in apprehension. “Marvelous things,” he reiterated with that same quiet intonation, and Harry, despite being back under the press of that brutal gaze, might have believed that Voldemort was speaking to himself. That is, until the Dark wizard was back to using his imposing form to crowd him, taking three long and deliberately slow, prowling steps toward his prophesized vanquisher. The glint of interest in his violent eyes did not abate in the slightest as he approached.

Harry took a few steps back, this time landing himself against the fireplace. The back of Harry’s neck hit the mantle shelf above the fireplace itself, as his legs met air where there could have been a roaring fire in the grate. The message was clear: nowhere else to go.

Voldemort’s eyes were glowing in the darkness of the sitting room. They remained that way, with the Elder Wand’s point now tucked into Harry’s chin, tipping his head back and Voldemort’s flattened nostrils and red, red eyes inches from his own green ones. He wondered what Voldemort thought as those talons grasped his hair again, as he had in the Forest, and wrenched his head back. If Voldemort had been a real snake, Harry would have felt more fear, with his jugular exposed in such a manner. As it was, he felt the thrum of some foreign feeling at the base of his skull. He tried his best to ignore it, as the terrifying figure of Voldemort released his hair and drew a long finger along the side of Harry’s face as Harry pressed himself as far back as he could go, feeling the mantle shelf indent into the top of his spine. The long, cold finger turned and drew its nail along the line of Harry’s jaw, and he wanted to hiss in discomfort, but he just endured this strange moment, this weird tension, because he felt as though, in those vivid eyes meeting his, they had entered a different kind of power struggle.

The finger tapped the point of his chin, and Voldemort’s eyes never wavered from Harry’s as he slid that slender pointer finger down the underside of the young wizard’s chin, finding the base of his throat. With an almighty glare of madness, for that’s all it was, all it had ever been between the two of them, those clawed fingers wrapped their cool embrace around Harry’s throat and squeezed.

It was light, a warning, a tangible significance. Harry couldn’t help his throat bobbing as he swallowed several times on reflex—as if his Adam’s apple sensed the danger and was trying to get out of the way.

_Nowhere to go._ That much was obvious. Voldemort squeezed, and Harry let out a noise like he was choking, a reflexive sound, and Voldemort’s slitted eyes expanded, as though they were going to return to the circular shape of a more human form. They stalled, giving him an even more alien appearance, and Harry felt the front of his head swim. He reached up to grasp Voldemort’s wrist, to ease the pressure, but he was met with the same invisible barrier and shock up his wrist as before. The Dark Lord leaned forward then, and Harry felt the coolness of his skin against his cheek, even from the thin distance kept carefully between them. Breath tickled the shell of his ear, and it was like Harry fell under a trance. Everything seemed to melt away, like reality itself had slipped, as though there was nothing to fear anymore. A murderer with a message he needed to convey to his prey, that was all. It was as if there was no vice gripping his throat, as if it was all just a hazardous illusion. When the words came, it was in a whisper from a voice so familiar it could have been Harry’s own.

“See how you are weak, Harry? You, the feeble vessel of my soul, the Chosen One—none of these will stop your susceptibility to mortality. You will succumb. You will _submit_ ,” and the hand gave a pressured squeeze before that breath retreated from his ear.

Harry was sickened immediately as reality returned with the same jolting alertness as being dunked in cold water. He felt this was the revenge for his words in the Forest. For Voldemort, there could only ever be more revenge, more carnage, and more _power_. As he drew back from his press against Harry’s throat, the Dark Lord let his nails scratch lightly as his long hand withdrew. Harry compartmentalized as quickly as he could. This was weird, even by Voldemort’s standards. Abjectly strange, and bizarrely intimate.

The Dark Lord gave him a last, long look, and swept away, his black robes undulating around him like an indeterminate shadow, and Harry shivered at the lasting feeling of light abrasions on his skin.

Voldemort turned then, with a fluid snap of his body. The familiar red of _crucio_ flew through the air and Harry’s Quidditch reflexes kicked in, despite his aching exhaustion and pulled muscles, every fiber in him was yelling _dodge_ as he dove behind the couch, nearest the window. He rested the back of his head against the upholstery, and had no indication of Voldemort’s movements in the room, and couldn’t see him in the faint reflection of the window.

Suddenly the Dark sorcerer appeared on Harry’s left, having come around the arm of the couch and Harry felt a thrill of adrenaline spike—Merlin, adrenaline and practiced childhood and Quidditch agility were the only things that kept him going—as he sprang back, and knocked into a potted tree, whose leaves grabbed him instantly, shooting around his body to wrap him closely to the thin trunk, ensnaring him completely. Harry struggled as Voldemort laughed that familiar high, cruel laugh that Harry hated, the laugh that haunted his nightmares for years of his life.

Harry saw the return of red; as vivid, wild, and drawn from panic as before.

He thrashed and struggled against the vines, he roared in fury—a tortured, anguished sound—and magic shot backwards into the plant, which immediately withdrew from his body with a shriek.

Without another thought, Harry hit the ground and was off. Through the room he bounded, in the direction of the door he had considered as an escape route. With the light pouring in, he could see fleeting details, which indicated that he was in a large study or a small library. He felt Voldemort’s amusement and irritation blend in a horribly confusing mixture, faint over the connection they had, but threatening to explode again. He nearly collapsed from the strain as he pounded across the room and he had a dreadful feeling that Voldemort was allowing him to flee.

_Alohomora!_ Harry thought with all of his might, like he had never wanted anything more in his life, and he felt the magic rush through him as he reached for the handle, and the door clicked and he was out the door. Harry had never felt a total relief like that crushed so completely as the mixture, which could have been described as lightly churning, overflowed to pure anger as Harry flew through the door, feet not stopping and head whipping back and forth as he frantically searched for an exit through the pounding distraction of his head.

He didn’t dare go up the stairs to his left, knowing he was not strong or fast enough to make it. He flew down the hall to his right. His heart was in his throat as he slammed into the double doors of what could only be a kichen, taking in the shuttered windows and the black and white marble beneath his feet as he skidded across the tiles and with a _whump_ collapsed in a heap as a spell smacked heavily into his back. He smacked his jaw sharply against the large marble squares. He heard heavy material of a cloak and breathing above him, as he was facedown. He was given the longest dose of _crucio_ he had as of yet been exposed to in his short life.

_Good Merlin. The pain._ It never got easier.

Voldemort tossed Harry’s sack of a body over and continued to _crucio_ him, which made Harry’s thoughtless mind implode with the burning knives, which tore every inch of his being to shreds. Harry was sure he had thrashed his head several times into the corner of the island in the center of the kitchen, but couldn’t feel a pain so dull, nor spare a worry through the unending sea of violence cascading upon his very soul, which was surely threatening to shatter within him, just to escape the agony of enduring this, surviving this.

Harry’s head lolled and his heart pounded and stuttered. He could feel something dripping into the shell of his ear. He tried to lift his hand to wipe it away, but his bicep just twitched and he lay still, unable to control his limbs. In a way, he guessed this was fine.

He may be a Horcrux, bound to the horror of Voldemort’s life, but he was expendable mentally. Maybe Voldemort would go too far and kill him. A bit delayed, but it would get the job done, and no one—not least of all, Harry himself—could ask for more than that.

The dull throb near his ear and on the top of his head, where he faintly remembered the sharp hits against the corner of the counter, returned and he flinched as a sharp spike of pain shot through his head.

_Oh, Merlin, am I not going through enough?_ thought Harry bitterly as Voldemort leant down. Harry forced his eyes to look into the merciless snake’s face.

“Hello, Harry,” Voldemort whispered. “You absolute fool.”

Harry couldn’t even respond to that, his body was so worn. Voldemort just leant down further, leaning his face close enough that Harry could feel the faint chill emanating from his enemy, like a stagnant winter air.

“Have we learned the lesson of running? How futile it is to oppose Lord Voldemort?”

Harry wanted to scoff at that. Before he could even attempt it, he felt a hand splay out solidly against his chest, and press down. Harry’s eyes, which had been drooping against his will, seemed to get a clue, and flew open in shock as Voldemort continued to press, digging his claws in through his thin shirt. With his newfound sense of awareness, Harry was able to throw a glare at Voldemort, the only jibe he would be getting in.

Harry was being physically crushed by a single hand of his enemy. There was a new form of irony there. There also was no way that magic wasn’t involved, as his lungs seemed to deflate under the pressure and breath was harder to draw by the second.

As he sank slowly into the pit of oblivion, if only for a brief reprieve, Harry thought he saw a flicker of blue light overhead, and believed that if he lived through this night, Fate truly was cruel.


	3. Lightning Rod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is alive and not too terribly glad about it. He reacquaints himself with the kind of person he is dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: characters are J.K. Rowling's  
> Notes: I like the descriptions in this one and the further plot that will come from it.   
> Leave a comment if you want to. I appreciate everyone who gives this a read-through. I hope you continue to enjoy the journey with me.  
> Onward.

It was the ease with which he woke, a natural slip from nothing into something, which made Harry nervous. Wary to open his eyes and see someone he didn’t want to, he cracked an eye, but saw no one in sight. He swiveled his head carefully above him and over his shoulder.

He was alone.

Moreover, he was alone on a bed, and the strangeness of that pillowed sensation below him made him more fueled with nerves. Kindness was a tricky thing to capture, Harry knew, and he had certainly done nothing to earn it last night, not that he had wanted to. The night was supposed to pass easily, be virulent to Harry and sever him from this bonded life, not end with Voldemort asking question after question about what he was hiding and why he lived.

He had wanted—needed—Voldemort to kill him, with a desperation that made his head thud dully with the depressive weight of his dereliction. In the light of this new day Harry had found himself in, he and Voldemort were both supposed to be dead and gone from this world, and the irreconcilable truth was that that was probably never going to happen now.

The people of the Magical community were supposed to be moving on today, putting the destruction and fear of the past year behind them; instead they were in the same damning situation, and the souls lost at the Battle of Hogwarts had given themselves over in vain, sacrificed for nothing.

The frustrated strength in that thought was enough to rouse Harry. It convinced him that he had to continue to fight, to drag himself to the bitter end, because it would be a disservice not to.

He slid himself up to a seated position—and winced all the way—up against a wooden headboard. His arms trembled a little as they pushed and lifted his weight. Harry grit his teeth in annoyance as he recognized the aftereffects resultant from the torturous Unforgivable.

He was in a furnished room, although it had starkness, plain from lack of decor. Harry felt his eyebrows knit closer and closer together the more he took in—cream-colored walls, light carpeting, an ebony double-door wardrobe that looked like it definitely held a boggart in its chest, and a window to his right. There was a doorway to his left that was open to a dim bathroom, and the door directly across from him, adjacent to the large wardrobe, was shut. He reached up and dabbed tentatively at his scar, worried that it would be tender, but it felt fine.

That was what had him most on edge. He felt fine.

He lowered his hand to adjust his glasses, crooked on his bridge. He traced the outline of the bruised indentations the frames had dug into his nose and the side of his face as he had slept.

His eyes continued to dart around, but all was quiet. Nothing jumped out at him. There was no group of Snatchers. No gathering of Death Eaters to jeer at him or pin him up for torture. There was no Dark Lord—and that may have been what surprised him most of all.

All that talk of inevitability and comments about how he would have Harry and the way he had grabbed his throat—

Harry’s hand rose again, this time to touch the front of his neck, and shivers went down his arms as he brushed his Adam’s apple. He lowered the hand. His eyes followed the trail of goose bumps down the back of his arms until he saw it.

Harry clenched his jaw, again.

The proof that he had lived through a tortuous ordeal with Lord Voldemort was indeed still present on his arm, which had been crushed in the Dark Lord’s stiff vise of a grip. Blotchy purple and red lines surrounded his right forearm, which made Harry rationally angry, despite his part in the creation of the marks, as he had stubbornly attempted to pull away even after he realized the impracticability of it. Maybe he was too stupid for his own good, after all.

It felt like a reminder to Harry from the other man, of who held the power. Apparently, escape tallies didn’t count toward that. It was instead all about measured knowledge and the number of secrets kept. Harry exhaled in disgust.

It occurred to him—that is to say, it was not lost on him—that all of that silence on Voldemort’s part while Harry had physically struggled may have taught the Dark Lord a lot about him, or maybe confirmed some things…like the fact that he was unafraid to speak his mind, because he thought that he had something to say that others may need to hear…or that he was bad at not filling silences when faced with the maniac who was the bane of his existence…or, maybe, that he was reckless and cared about people to a fault, and would do absolutely anything for them, include lay his own life down, if it meant sparing theirs.

The last point probably puzzled the Dark Lord to no end, although the older wizard was certainly aware of that part of Harry’s nature, having used that tactic against him many times, over the years.

The point wasn’t whether Voldemort had known these things about Harry, or whether he had suspected them in the past. It was to have it confirmed while Harry was acting under pressure.

Harry stared sullenly at the wall, lost in these thoughts. He encircled his arms around his knees as he sat in wait for the door to open, for something to show that he wasn’t alone. His current predicament only left him with residual reminders—he glanced down at the ring of bruises on his wrist—to show for what horrible reality he was in. He sighed sharply as he tore his eyes away from the marks. He released the hold on his knees as he drew his left arm across his chest to hold his right shirtsleeve.

As he sat in the bright sunlight that streamed from the window and stared unblinkingly at the closed gray door, he tapped his finger against the bed and took stock of what he remembered.

He worried about the state of his body—that was for sure. As he had been put under the Cruciatus Curse more than his fair share the previous night, it was a wonder he was moving normally at all. Then, somewhere after his marvelously short bid for freedom no further than down a hallway, he had been put to sleep and brought to this room—after being tortured, reprimanded, and suffocated.

Harry gripped the blanket under his hand as he felt anxious energy course into him, and his arm trembled with the weak effort. Voldemort had kept him alive, supposedly placed him here, and for what end?

Harry, drained though he was, knew he had to try to stand, to look around and examine his chances for a further escape. He swung a foot gingerly over the side of the bed, and immediately his knee buckled, but seemed to hold all right after a moment, so he placed the other foot down on the carpet and pushed himself to stand.

Nothing disastrous happened, the room retained its stillness. Harry had moved and no one had burst through the door and demanded why he was off the bed or where he was going. From what Harry could see so far, if he was still under the Dark Lord’s control, he was probably confined to this room.

He walked slowly around the foot of the bed to the window, which overlooked a large, vibrant green lawn. The room was high up, either five or six floors off from the ground, so he was able to see the tops of the evergreens that bordered the lawn into the woods, which seemed so expansive it could rival the Forbidden Forest. Beyond that, Harry could see sloping hills intersect each other in rounded green lines.

Harry was careful to not touch the window, well aware from his time camping with Ron and Hermione that wards were powerful and disorienting; he also knew what to look for because of that experience, and sensed a strong magic on the glass. He craned his neck as close to the window as possible, and tried to see as far left and right as he could.

It was a property that lacked recognizable landmarks besides the large lawn and the forest. The house seemed to have been set in a circle of cleared land in the middle of generally untamed wilderness.

“Awake, Harry?” Harry started as a familiar voice, cold and presumptuous, came softly from the other side of the room. His back stiffened and his hand balled into a fist as he leaned away from the window.

Harry swallowed once and turned to the Dark Lord.

“Good morning,” said Voldemort, now that he had Harry’s full attention.

He stood so out of place in this regular, unadorned setting, which looked every bit the part of an undecorated Muggle bedroom. In his traditional, inky black robes, his skeletal white head, hands, and feet were in vivid contrast. His hands were intertwined politely in front of him.

“Hardly, since you’re still out and about,” jibed Harry tautly, not in the mood to pretend to be cheerful or grateful or whatever the Dark wizard across from him expected him to be, just for putting him in a room with a view. He simply did not have that kind of political patience.

Voldemort’s jaw flexed at that, as though he was willing himself to overlook Harry’s insolence this—morning, was it? Either Harry had been unconscious a lot longer than he had thought, or he had not slept much, after all. They stood in an uncomfortable silence.

Voldemort clicked his tongue.

“I have half a mind to put you in a bubble like Nagini, just to ensure you can’t use your ‘accidental’ magic, again,” Voldemort broke the moment of silence, with his only half-amused words, as they held far too much of a threat.

“Don’t say ‘accidental,’” protested Harry cuttingly, as he unclenched his fingers and threw air quotes around the word. Voldemort infuriatingly adopted an expression of heavy skepticism. Harry grew defensive at the faint prickling in his scar.

“It _was_ accidental! Seeming to only come out in an aversion to _you._ ”

This was not going well at all, and they had only just started. Harry chewed on his lower lip, in an attempt to silence himself.

Voldemort just looked pointedly at him, and Harry got the sense that if he mocked the Dark Lord with air quotes again, he would need to figure out how to mend his fingers without the aid of potions. Voldemort’s mind seemed to flicker from anger, flipping quickly to the telltale feeling of deviousness. Harry narrowed his eyes at him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Harry, his eyes narrowed.

Voldemort did dare. Despite Harry’s best attempt at a lunge over the bed, his agility was no match to the Dark Lord’s ability with a wand. Voldemort sent a well-aimed curse at his ankle, causing it to swell as if he had badly sprained it, and he tumbled to the floor on the other side of the bed from the window. He felt the tingle of amusement tickle at the back of his head.

Harry, sprawled face-first on the floor, tried to turn over, and became instantly horrified to see bluish-green walls of pure magic had converged around him and formed a seamless sphere. He immediately panicked and became intensely claustrophobic.

The magical floor he was now laying on shimmered, and as he tried to scramble up, reacted as though he was in a hamster ball—he rolled unceremoniously into the bathroom doorway, and slammed his face into the curved wall of his enclosure, hard.

“Fuck, ow,” groaned Harry, as he fell back, hand flying to rub his smarting nose.

The sphere began to roll backwards until he bounced off of the side of the bed, and, unable to get his feet under him, or his hands out in front of him as he wobbled in the tight space, he thudded into the doorway again, stumbled, and, all coordination lost, changed course—toward Voldemort.

The man lifted a bare foot and stopped the giant ball easily, like a pro football player. Harry decided to sit down and collect himself, glaring at the man on the outside of the bubble who was doing nothing, absolutely nothing, to hide his amusement. Harry lifted two fingers to dab at the underside of his nose, feeling for blood. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have broken it, and his fingers came away crimson-free. He scowled back up at Voldemort through the filtered light of the bluish-green shimmer.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Harry,” said Voldemort, a little muffled through the wall, a little peculiarly breathless. Peculiar, but only noted because Harry thought he may understand the reason.

The side effect of being trapped inside a glowing ball of pure magical energy was the unexpected headiness when surrounded by the undiluted concentration of just what it was—magic; even if it was Voldemort’s— _especially_ , it would seem, if it was Voldemort’s.

Harry was lost more fully to the floating sensation of deliriousness the longer he was inside the colorful confinement. He leaned back against the globe’s curved wall behind him, and the sensation of a moving, solid smoothness, like glass sliding around him, pulled lightly at his clothes, like lapping waves.

It seemed to have an effect on the Dark Lord as well, because he raised his wand through the haze, and the sphere broke. It fell away to nothing but a shower of light and color. Its disappearance pulled everything down, and Harry with it—and then it was gone, as quickly as it had trapped him. Harry, who had been leaning against the back curve, landed on his back.

It felt like the earth had come up to meet Harry, rather than him taking the fall back to earth. The mesmeric blue-green stained glass hues still felt imprinted on his sight, like a filter to his vision. Harry blinked a few times, and the filter cleared, and he was back on that carpeted floor, beneath that heavy, red-eyed gaze.

Harry looked up at that haunting white face, so blank, and saw the concealed reactions, the utter turmoil of his mountainous emotions. Harry felt them all flip and flip and flip past the end of their connection—literal touch and go.

Harry now seemed to find a visualization of their connection—that bond through the Horcrux that he so detested—as he felt the flipbook of feeling roil at the back of his mind; it was giving him a tremendous headache, a feeling which crept dully to the front of his head.

Since the emotion always seemed so pinpointed, so lively, at the back of his mind, he pictured it as a sort of glass bulb on a rod.

In the steady, stormy onslaught of his everyday life, full of pitfalls and treachery, Harry acknowledged the rod buried in the back of his skull, which conducted Voldemort’s lightning strikes of emotion. This way, it kept an observable separation for Harry, and the rest of him could be protected from Voldemort’s magnificently powerful surges, which left uncontrolled, could literally destroy him.

Separation and compartmentalization were important mental habits for Harry, a tried and true technique he had employed lately in his life—one might better call it what it was: coping mechanism creation.

It allowed him to witness the changing colors within the spun glass, which weren’t colors at all, just feelings that reminded him of the portrayal of life—a lightening or darkening of representative emotions; a tiny, spun glass window into a sadistic, shifting mind, anchored to him by a firm line of communication—the rod.

He stared up at those mean eyes, which always promised him so much pain, and thought maybe he pictured it as a hollow glass sphere, filled with emotions, because the prophecy had always connected the two of them—boy to man, Light to Dark, good to evil, and all the grays and questioning moments Harry had had about Tom Riddle in between their meetings.

Even now that the prophecy had shattered—had been shattered for years—it didn’t change its existence, its influence.

How the fragility of that influence had held against the chaotic whirlwind of Lord Voldemort’s ever-present quest for power over his own life, Harry hadn’t the faintest idea. How words could be contained in a ball, swirling indefinitely, a mere memory, a shadow of the past, and hold such meaning or meaninglessness was a great mystery to him.

Voldemort was his bane, but the man had a draw, a lure; Harry had always been inextricably linked to him, from a moment long before he was born—that wasn’t just something that he could walk away from. Severus Snape and Sybill Trelawney—two people he would not trust with determining anyone’s life’s course—had seen to that existence for him, and had influenced his entire trajectory. There was not a life for him that didn’t include a history of Voldemort, a shadow he had tried time and time again to outshine.

The monster towered in a fear-inducing fashion above him, and suddenly, he was an enigma, and Harry was disgustingly entranced.

Or maybe it was the effects that lingered in his own mind from that magic which had almost touched the majority of his body, separated by only the fibers of his clothes. A rational explanation would be that those lingering effects mixed in a swarm with Voldemort’s indecisive emotions, and that’s why he was feeling as he was—as though he were choosing something to focus on that seemed both sentimental and unhinged.

He felt the rationality of Voldemort’s wrath at him, blended with the irrational response to trap Harry in his magic, only to release him shortly after. Harry felt that confliction in the frail bulb at the back of his mind, but on the outskirts, in the mental land that they both shared, there was a new, powerful persistence that pressed to be known—a turbulent whisper of a thought repeated over and over, with more ire in its every iteration.

He was engulfed by the fascination of his greatest foe…destructively so.

Intermingled as they were, Harry couldn’t tell whose thoughts had introduced _that_ concept.

Perspective was never lost on Harry, nowadays. Nor was the irony of how powerful emotional influencers could be, distinctly with relevance to their lives. After all, Harry had spent half of his life knowing Voldemort was his reason for having had a miserable life—until Hogwarts, and even then.

“Damn it, your thoughts are loud,” remarked Harry, rubbing his lightning scar with his fist. He had tried to drown out that new loudness in his head by speaking, but it only made it louder.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed on his, the black slits of his pupils blown out in fury—the natural response the Dark Lord seemed to have to everything he didn’t understand—and the day he had the grace to even _try_ to understand his own emotions would be the day he killed his precious remaining Horcruxes himself.

So Harry, in an attempt to ignore the aggressively dark cloud of insanity with all its vicious intent aimed at him, let his gaze drop to the wand in Voldemort’s hand.

Harry’s brow furrowed, because in the long white fingers was an equally long, white wand—the bone-colored yew one of his graveyard nightmares…

Voldemort seemed to notice the draw of Harry’s eyes, and lifted it up in the fingers of both his hands, to hold it by its handle and tip. He answered Harry’s unasked question. Harry hadn’t thought for a moment he would explain himself to him, but he did.

“The Elder Wand is safe in place only I can access. Sifting through your mind proved to be quite productive. I achieved gathering the Stone you dropped to the Forest floor before meeting with me—“

Harry’s heart shot up to his throat and his eyes flew to Voldemort’s, wide and anxious.

“Whoa, wha—wait!” Harry burst out, unthinkingly, shaking his head in disbelief. Voldemort had indeed stopped speaking at Harry’s outburst, and although the tendrils of annoyance made the bulb flash at the back of his head and pain trickled along the sides of his skull, Harry felt a graceful patience bloom—the eagerness to learn, to have a theory confirmed.

Harry realized his mistake, and dread filled his mind as those ruby eyes coasted across his face, drunk in the desperation he found there with eager superiority. For Harry had just shown too much interest, given too much emphasis on something that could have been a passive remark.

“I mean, you don’t believe a children’s story, really, do you?” asked Harry nonchalantly, and coated on the skepticism for good measure. He really did try to make Voldemort attempt to backtrack, to insert doubt into what he thought Voldemort knew...about the Hallows.

“Manipulation does not suit you, Harry,” Voldemort said softly, his eyes regarded him knowingly. Harry tried to maintain his blank mask, but he could feel it was a flimsy defense at best.

“I thought on why you might be so brave, to come to the Forest and fall to your knees, begging me to kill you,” declared Voldemort.

“That’s not what happened at all, you slick git,” growled out Harry. Irritation flared in his head and his scar ignited instantly. Harry keeled over his knees and clapped his palms to his forehead as his vision whited out.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Harry whispered into the carpet.

“Insolent _boy_ ,” roared Voldemort, and Harry knew he had really messed up, overstepped the boundaries in his little roam through the Dark Lord’s patience, truly forgotten the insanity incarnate he was talking to.

Voldemort felt no hesitation or reservation in modulating Harry’s life; he never had and he never would—he enjoyed flipping it upside-down, if he could get his hands on him.

Damn, the Cruciatus _burned_. There was nothing like it.

Harry had romanticized that he had a connection with Lord Voldemort, when the only relationship that they could ever remotely have would be one of control. Only an untethered dominance that was absolute, pervasive in its capacity, and unequal in its contention would be acceptable to Voldemort, definitely where Harry was concerned. Harry had come to this conclusion before, but he couldn’t help but drift away from that truth.

Now was one of those times when that truth slammed into him, full force, and made him feel all the foolhardy Gryffindor he had been belittled as by his enemies.

Voldemort paused in his torture, and Harry tried to look up. He couldn’t do it. His muscles were refusing to obey, to cooperate with his efforts.

Harry, humbled on the floor, quaked with exhaustion from days of abuse. He could not compete with Lord Voldemort’s level of animosity. He didn’t want to. Merlin, what would that even _look_ like?

That said, he wanted Voldemort dead with every fiber of his being. He hated him. He damn near threw up from the pain shot through his head and through his body, but as Voldemort finally stopped the pain he inflicted, and despite everything he felt and the horror of living through it, Harry still clung to those threads of his sanity.

_Damn it._

Harry, his face hidden from the Dark Lord stood above him, was embarrassed to feel a silent tear slide down his nose and drip into the carpet. He breathed heavy.

“Shh, shh, shh…Harry…” Voldemort coaxed him to look up, but Harry would not. Annoyance flared at the back of his skull, but Harry’s resentment was strong at the moment; too strong to be bothered by something so fickle.

Voldemort would not have it.

“Look at me, Harry,” came the deadly calm, a deadpan command. The coldness that signaled the awakening of the self-assured beast, the one that came to life when Voldemort knew he was about to use force to get what he wanted, when the will of his ask wasn’t enough, emerged. Harry was sickened in the feeling of _relish_ that clouded his head.

Harry realized he himself was thirsty, he hadn’t eaten, he had been thoroughly beat up over the last few days, and what killed him the most about it was that there was no end, no reprieve in sight. It was just he and the sadist before him, until Harry could come up with another plan.

Harry didn’t want to feel attachment, and he didn’t want to contemplate his emotions and how they mixed with the other’s, he didn’t want to care about the fate of the Wizarding World, and he wanted desperately to know the fates of his friends, and he didn’t want understand Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, and he didn’t want to try to beat him at his own game of manipulation and war.

Harry couldn’t win alone, but he couldn’t be defeated, not now. He saw his friends faces flash in a blur, like he was flying past them in the stands of one of his Quidditch matches, as though his chance of picking out their faces, or seeing them again, was gone in just the same flash of color.

Harry was angry. He was angrier than he had ever been, because who was Voldemort to torture him? Who was Voldemort to hurt his friends, to _use_ them, to underestimate him and the people around him, to _choose_ to kill Harry or not? He didn’t give choices or chances to anything or anyone that stood in his way.

Who was Lord Voldemort besides the one who had taken everything, and given nothing in return, because he was incapable— _so_ _incapable_ of true understanding, even of himself? It was laughable; humorless and laughable.

Harry lifted his eyes then, and he hated his life, and he hated the sadistic creep before him, lording over him with a superiority complex and a broken soul. Harry hoped Lord Voldemort would feel all of his hate—all knotted up in his stomach and chest from where he held himself together on the floor—and know it was for him. Harry craned his neck up, and stared defiantly into that hungry, leering gaze and he wanted to _spit_.

“Fuck. You.”

The words had come unbidden, but Harry felt vindicated, if only for the moment, that he had gotten his point across.

Voldemort’s eyes widened, and then slowly bared his teeth, wild fury in his eyes, and he looked all the parts of the deranged psychopath that Harry wanted him to be.

The absolute agony that followed—Harry wished he could say it had been worth it.

He writhed. He screamed. He twisted and pulled his muscles to the brink of their exertion.

Voldemort wouldn’t let up. Harry couldn’t even feel what he was supposed to be feeling; his skin was so on fire from the mix of curses frying him alive. He was being broken into pieces, physically and mentally driven to the edge of a canyon and pushed into the depths, and he felt his spirit give a little at that.

Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, Harry understood that he could die from this kind of pain. This tortuous exercise could be his saving grace. That tiny dark hope was his undoing.

He felt those compartments of stored abuse burst open, tear asunder, and it was more than he could bear, to experience it all at once. It was more and more and more, and Harry pleaded somewhere in the cacophony for it to at least plateau, but the agony continued to mount.

Harry was lost in the sea of suffering, tossed in the waves of torment. Harry had gone away.

It was quiet, when he stopped screaming; even to his own ears.

When his body stopped feeling fresh waves of pain, he still felt it. Voldemort came to him, and shoved that foot against his cheek and pushed Harry’s head to the side in a grossly commanding gesture.

“No one,” he hissed in a deadly low voice, “speaks to me that way. I am Lord Voldemort, you will treat with the due respect or you will suffer the consequences. You should be grateful I am merciful to you. You _will_ show gratitude. Am I understood, Harry?”

Harry couldn’t speak. Harry couldn’t move. Harry struggled to keep his eyes even partially open.

“An answer, Harry. You will respect the level of manners I demand,” he said in a ruthless tone, invested and manic. He slid his foot affectionately from the cheek, to Harry’s throat, and pressed, and pressed, and pressed.

Harry, even in his stupor, freaked out. He grunted as loud as he could, strained though it was, and after a moment, the hard crush into his throat released, and he could breathe his shallow breaths once more.

“Now,” said the Dark Lord. “Collect yourself. We have much to discuss.”


	4. What Do You Know, Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry contemplates the Deathly Hallows title. Sure, that will work for a summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take care of yourselves out in this big, wonderfully mad world of ours.  
> Leave a comment if you feel up to the challenge, I love 'em.  
> Thanks for enjoying this story with me.

Harry didn’t move, and he did not try to, either. He remained on his back, still feeling the humiliating force of his greatest enemy’s foot against his cheek.

He heard Voldemort move away in a swish of his cloak, and heard another short motion in the direction of his feet.

Harry just stared at the ceiling—a blank, white painted expanse—and let his trembling body sink into the padding of the carpet, not that it made much of a difference. His body felt like it was buzzing and now that it wasn’t actively under any curse influence, he felt the quivers and aftershocks of his strained muscles. He had an unnerving lack of control—of his own body, of whatever situation he had just entered—and it bothered him immensely.

“Harry,” came the Dark Lord’s voice. It was both a faux gentle reminder—there was nothing gentle about the older wizard—and an irritant to Harry’s ears.

Harry looked down his nose as far as he could, but only saw a black blur blotted in a contrast to the paleness of the room. He tried to lift his head to be able to look through his glasses, but his neck was incredibly sore, and if he thought it was difficult to lift himself up when he first awoke, well, he could forget about attempting it now.

“Harry,” Voldemort said again, a bit sharper this time. His impatience bled through the bond, and sent a dull tingle around the base of his neck. Harry experimented with twitching his fingers and toes but found that he couldn’t really feel them. He began to panic when he realized he did indeed feel movement if he concentrated, but it seemed distant.

Harry sighed sharply, and immediately winced as pain stabbed through his chest.

_Oh, Merlin, I’ll never be able to breathe properly again._

Abruptly, Harry was in crisis mode of how he could get out of being punished again for not moving when he, in fact, _couldn’t_ move. Not a single doubt in Harry’s mind appeared to say that Voldemort didn’t know that, either.

A shock of pain flared across his forehead—it appeared that Voldemort had grown tired of Harry ignoring him—but what normally would have seared, felt numb on his raw skin, as though a quill tip were lightly scratching over the scar on his forehead. Belatedly, as though he had just thought to scratch an itch, Harry slowly raised his hand to his forehead.

The scratching stopped and the feeling faded.

With his hand now paused in front of his face with no further purpose, Harry saw that his fingers trembled terribly. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, delayed. Harry’s brow furrowed as he stared at his hand before he just let it drop with a thud to the floor next to him, and he stared at ceiling above him once more.

He heard a light sigh from down by his feet.

Three heartbeats passed before Harry’s body was instantly torn from its dazed state. All at once, Harry felt like his veins had been injected with lava and it was seeping from inside of him out of every pore.

Harry screamed in a way he didn’t realize he still could, and after a moment the sound of his voice strained, cracked, and died in his throat. The pain cooled and the hellacious feeling left him completely.

Another wave of magic, like a douse of cold water over his body, and he felt…relieved. Which also filled him with great trepidation.

Harry panted hard and worriedly tried to lift his hand again, shocked and slightly thrilled to see that whatever magic Voldemort had just used had fixed him, at least for the moment. He tried not to think of what amount of strife he just went through at the hands of the very person who healed him. Was everything so whimsical to the Dark Lord? When it came to Harry, it certainly seemed so.

He tentatively flexed his stomach and leaned up. He resisted a slight smile at being able to do so without feeling immediately awful. He lifted his eyes to the sight before him.

Harry wasn’t sure of the appropriate reaction he was supposed to have. He felt frozen in between a simultaneous desire to yell, shrink away, and drop his jaw. He instead, fell back on his elbows and just took it in.

Lord Voldemort had conjured himself a throne—a black, gothic monstrosity that Harry had difficulty believing could be constructed so suddenly and without any thought or _noise_ on Voldemort’s part—that had now taken up most of the real estate to the left of the bed. It was just so large, with a high back adorned by wooden spikes along its top. Harry felt his eyes draw to the intricate carvings of snakes, which lined the arms. Their raised forms slinked around on the polished ebony wood as though they were alive, and framed Voldemort where he sat, his long limbs draped elegantly to fill the space of the throne.

Harry blinked. The Dark Lord sat with casual arrogance, and comfortably looked all the parts of someone who was fit to rule.

Aside from his snakelike appearance, or perhaps because of it, he had the style of someone who commanded a room. Harry had seen that to be true time and time again with his Death Eaters. Or maybe that thought swam easily to the surface because Harry had had the floor wiped with him by the man three countable times in two days. Between the events in the Forbidden Forest, in the kitchen, and just now, that easy demeanor had him reasonably wary and on edge.

Voldemort’s legs were crossed under his robe and he was leaning on one armrest in a leisurely, casual way that made Harry remember that he had just been subjected to…a lot. The wariness instantly became incredible fury. He guessed that that was something he and the Dark Lord had in common: the anger that was inspired so easily by the other.

He bit his tongue, literally, to keep his mouth shut for real this time. If Voldemort was over his tantrum, then that was all the better for Harry; he didn’t need to provoke the man again.

Harry had to look away from those eyes, so intently focused on him, so he trained them on the carpet by Voldemort’s feet. He cleared his throat after a moment, and winced; his throat was sore and dry; strained.

“Wha—what did you…” Harry trailed off. He felt stupid, as he lay in a stupid position in front of someone whose sole purpose was always to humiliate him…to always cause Harry pain.

“If you have a question, Harry, do not be afraid to ask,” said Voldemort softly. Harry felt his lip curl in disgust, but he kept his eyes down on the carpet.

“What did you do to me?” he growled, ripping through the soreness, allowing his anger freedom to cover his helplessness.

“Just now. That—” he stopped short. His eyes flicked uneasily to Voldemort, seated just feet from him. He had almost said that it had _hurt_. Obviously. He didn’t need to give Voldemort the supreme satisfaction of his admittance, though.

Voldemort lifted one hairless brow, a curious gesture that Harry was welcome to continue, and moved his hand up to cup the side of his pale face, as though he were fascinated by what Harry had to say.

Harry tried his best to control his anger when he next spoke.

“What did you use to make the—er—to make me able to move?” Harry instantly regretted it in the way Voldemort’s horribly intent expression split at his mouth in a mocking smirk. He worried that Voldemort would take the healing effects away again, and take great pleasure as he plunged Harry back into uselessness.

To his surprise, Voldemort instead answered him.

“It is a form of the nervous system stimulator spell, _Rennervate_. I will assume you’ve heard of it. It rouses someone who has fallen into unconsciousness one way or another…My followers, especially, are familiar with it.” Voldemort’s eyes glittered and Harry could feel his face twist a little in disgust at the Dark wizard’s amusement, no doubt as he thought of various torture events he had attended. He didn’t comment, and Voldemort continued.

“Yesss,” he hissed, “although, my variation is far more powerful, for use on those who succumb several times during interrogations. Quite inconvenient for them to be able to escape questioning through unconsciousness.”

Harry said nothing to these musings, but was beginning to find it hard to hold his tongue as Voldemort casually spoke about how he taught his Death Eaters how to force someone awake through any kind of stupor—most likely from techniques like the Cruciatus that led to loss of brain function over time. Harry shoved the emerging thought of Alice and Frank Longbottom to the bottom of his mind, and buried it under his brimming rage.

“I never have tried it on anything that was conscious, though. Which explains your delicious screams, Harry, I must thank you for that.” Voldemort smirked again.

“Are you trying to be _funny_?” seethed Harry, feeling his control slip.

“Why? Are you finding something to be humorous?” Voldemort’s entire expression had gone stony.

“Not in the least bit.” Harry matched him perfectly, and sat up further. Truthfully, he wanted to scoot back all to the way to the wall behind him, but he would never retreat from the Dark Lord, it just wasn’t in his nature.

“Hm,” Voldemort slipped his hand from his face and rested it on the armrest. He stroked the head of one of the writhing wooden snakes.

Before Harry lost his nerve, he asked the question that had been building inside of him.

“What happened to those at the Battle of Hogwarts?” Harry asked firmly. He was determined to get an answer today, and steeled himself for the good or the likely terrible. He had no idea what Voldemort’s reaction would be.

“Why would that be a concern of yours?” hummed Voldemort, but his eyes became hard.

“Because,” started Harry, exasperated, since Voldemort _knew_ right out of the gate exactly why it was a concern. It was Harry’s only concern, really.

“’Because’ is hardly a reason, Harry,” chided Voldemort, tilting his head against the back of his throne.

“Because it is my duty to protect them, and I need to know that they are alright,” said Harry. He was appealing, but the he was hoping that diplomacy might be his ticket.

Voldemort scoffed lightly, as he looked at the ceiling for another moment. Then he tilted his head down again and Harry was faced with the undiluted rage that he knew, but could not rival.

“Your _duty_ was a _fool’s_ errand that you could not complete, that you did not complete! For your sake, be glad that Nagini is still alive and well!” Voldemort’s eyes were bright with his fury.

Oh. They were going to talk about that.

“Don’t for a second try to play it off like you care about your soul now, when you have murdered hundreds of people, shredded it, and then left the bloody things scattered all about the country!” Harry shouted. “You were going to off me yesterday until you found out about a bloody _Horcrux_ living in my scar, or wherever the _hell_ it’s attached itself to!” Harry finished all of this in a rush, and his heart pounded in anticipation of more pain as he watched Voldemort’s eyes darken as he spoke. Harry could tell he wasn’t especially fond of the curse Harry had referenced as his soul, which Voldemort viewed as a prized possession. Harry couldn’t help himself, he was just so angry at this tyrant for trying to justify his side as right…and switching the subject from his friends…again.

Harry breathed through his nose, and made to stand. He almost managed it, too, if it hadn’t been for the foot that was still swollen from the first curse or hex that Voldemort had shot at him when he tumbled over the bed. Harry fell sideways onto the mattress with a hiss and drew his knee up to his chest. When he glared at Voldemort again, he had that wicked smirk on his face.

“A souvenir,” he said quietly, eyes cold, despite the amusement that coated the rest of his pale face.

“What?” hissed Harry. He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed, careful this time to not put his foot down.

“Just a reminder to deter any escape attempts in the near future,” said Voldemort firmly. Harry huffed in response to that.

Suddenly, a hard force rammed into Harry’s right shoulder, and knocked him harshly off of the bed.

“Ow,” he winced, his foot giving a terrible throb when he landed in a lump on the floor.

“I like you better in your proper place, Harry Potter. At my feet,” hissed Voldemort.

Harry was caught between glaring and rolling his eyes. He just lay back and tried to ignore the Dark Lord who sat in his throne, triumphant to have the Boy Who Lived exactly where he wanted him after so many years.

Harry closed his eyes, and became aware that he was nervous to do so, but he needed to attempt to relax.

Overall, in the last few minutes, Voldemort had seemed more contemplative than angry. Harry also knew him well enough to understand that this could be a ruse. The bulb at the back of his head swirled with a mixture of emotions that Harry could not individually decipher. He decided to try to draw out some answers, if he could.

“Do you believe in them?” he carefully asked the ceiling, eyes still closed.

“Do attempt to be more vague, Harry,” came the deadpan response as his forehead began to prickle. Harry swallowed, and knew that he was under intense scrutiny.

“The Deathly Hallows. You said you went and got the Stone I dropped.” He paused a moment. “You’ve seen it before.”

Harry was met with silence.

He tried to feel if Voldemort was going to blow up at him, but the bulb was in a full tilt swirl, it almost made Harry sick to try to interpret, so he pulled his attention away from it.

“In your Uncle’s ring,” Harry prodded, unsure. He cracked his eyes open and rolled his head to the side to meet the blank expression of Voldemort, who just stared down at him. Harry didn’t think he had overstepped, but maybe Voldemort was a better actor than Harry was giving him credit for. Even with minor insight into his more powerful emotions through the Horcrux, Harry had not noticed an indication of what the older wizard would do next.

“And how, Potter, would you happen to know that my Uncle had a ring, with that particular Stone in it?” said Voldemort, with such deliberate calm tone and a wicked half-curious, half-manic shine in his eyes. Harry mentally slapped himself, and instantly wished he had thought to say nothing at all.

“Uh, Dumbledore. I thought you—” Harry stammered.

Voldemort hissed in derisive hatred; the Dark Lord would in all likelihood, always be a little raw towards Dumbledore.

“—already knew this…through my memories? Unless you only cared about the—” Harry snapped his jaw shut.

He had been about to say _wand_. Harry definitely did not want to explain to the Dark Lord that he had delved into the man’s mind more than occasionally over the last year, with the intention of spying about his whereabouts. Not only that, but because of that invasion, knew that Voldemort had chased the idea of a wand more powerful than any other, for the better part of said year. He didn’t want to have that brought up, because the point of Voldemort’s worldly chase had been because the brother phoenix feather wand, the yew one in the room with them now, could not…kill Harry.

This moot point was recent, with sore spots that Harry did not want explored at the moment, because, all things equal, Harry should be dead, and he wasn’t sure that the Lord Voldemort, in all of his dastardly power, might not still find a way to make that happen.

The bigger fear of introducing a new reason for the older wizard to scheme would be that the Dark Lord—ever Fate-revered, as he so enjoyed to point out—would also manage to find a way to salvage his Horcrux.

Even if it wasn’t possible now, stranger things had happened in Harry’s life.

The very wand Voldemort had chased for a year, he had put away for safekeeping, though…which begged the question: did Voldemort know that Harry was the true Master of the Elder Wand?

He probably knew, but if he didn’t…on that slim chance he was still oblivious that Harry Potter had unwittingly thwarted him again…how could Harry subtly find out? If Harry still held the Elder Wand’s allegiance, that might make him the true Master of Death, and could keep that title from Voldemort, allowing him to be killed in the future.

Or would it? Harry had given Voldemort the Cloak. He didn’t know how the transfer fit in with anything. If Voldemort had truly gone to retrieve the Resurrection Stone, which he now felt stupid, because you couldn’t _accio_ the Deathly Hallows any more than you could _accio_ a Horcrux. Of course Voldemort wouldn’t spend time combing over the Forest floor for a tiny stone, based on _Harry’s theories_.

When Harry had dropped it, he was still the owner, the last user and Master of Death…at least in that moment. Harry had no way to test if he still was. _Did Voldemort know that?_ Scratch that, did he _believe_ it? Had he even seen the moment in Harry’s mind when he had disarmed Draco at Malfoy Manor…and realized that he had killed Severus Snape for the wrong reason?

Or did he just pass it off as some musing, as Hermione had done when Harry had mentioned it to her?

Ron had thought it had value, but Ron was his best mate; of course he would root for any chance Harry had at getting one over the Dark Lord. Becoming immortal without destruction of your soul or becoming a vampire was a start.

Tom Riddle had been raised as a Muggle, though. What were the chances that he had picked up a book titled _The Beetle and the Bard_ , with _Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump_ as one of the headlining stories, and found virtue in it?

No, Harry sincerely doubted it.

Voldemort didn’t know any of this to be true, but he was fishing for something that only a conscious Harry could give him.

Apparently, Harry had an interest in the Elder Wand so prevalent in his mind that Voldemort had taken to keeping it away from him when they were alone together. A few things became obvious to Harry, in ways that sudden understanding provides clarity in murky situations.

Lord Voldemort did not seem to know why Harry was so enamored with the Deathly Hallows.

Lord Voldemort was still looking for an explanation as to how Harry could so boldly come to him in the Forest, to embrace the one thing that he, in all his Dark glory, feared.

Lord Voldemort still did not believe that love and care of anyone outside of himself had much pull in this world, which made Lord Voldemort a fucking idiot.

Harry had these thoughts, and quickly tried to bury them.

Voldemort was still seething from the Dumbledore comment, and Harry’s scar had been slowly building in pain.

Yes, he thought it best not to aggravate the Dark Lord more.

After they sat and laid, respectively, in silence for a few minutes, Voldemort seemed to calm down. The pain in Harry’s scar faded to almost nothing, and then the Dark Lord spoke.

“You have an interesting mind, Harry Potter. Interesting theories on life…on Death.”

Harry felt his skin crawl. He was going to have to pull a full Slytherin move to get out of this—and it was going to have to come off as organically as possible.

“I don’t remember writing anything down,” said Harry, swallowing nervously.

“Silence, Harry,” Voldemort said silkily. The terror lay just beneath the calm surface; Harry could feel it churning, so he clicked his jaw shut.

“You have a specific theory relating three magical objects, and their combination over Death.”

“Yes,” said Harry slowly, doing his best impression of an ignorant tone, despite trying to remain within reach of the truth. “The Deathly Hallows. It’s a children’s story. It would be great if it existed in a real way, as in the story, but the objects are definitely real,” Harry said, because this was all things that Voldemort had surely seen in memories. “But that’s just what they are, an imitation of the story.” Harry could feel hope begin to blossom as he felt his words come so close to the truth and yet give nothing away.

Voldemort gave a slow blink, and kept Harry pinned under his stare.

“Why do you say that it would be nice if they existed? Do they not?” he asked slowly. Voldemort’s tone the epitome of serene calm, which incredibly unnerved Harry.

“Well, it would have saved everyone a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?” said Harry, not needing to fake his small smile, even while his palms were sweating. “No more Horcruxes needed.”

Voldemort looked at him a moment. Harry wondered again if he had crossed a line, or if there was any line to cross, or if it mattered either way. Voldemort seemed content to thrash or not thrash Harry at his whim.

“So…to have the Stone…to have the Wand…” Voldemort mused, and his gaze floated above Harry’s head, as though the objects had pieced themselves together there.

“Magical artifacts, just like so many other things in this world,” confirmed Harry. He hoped he hadn’t spoken too quickly. The very last thing he needed at the moment was for it to seem as though he were hiding anything, and have Voldemort take a closer look.

“The wand _is_ powerful,” Harry pressed on, and he hoped to bolster Voldemort’s belief in the Elder Wand, if only in the Elder Wand. He resisted biting his lip in anxiousness, but resolved from saying anything more—such as that he himself was still the Master of the Elder Wand. Voldemort had not really taken any of the items from him by force, and certainly not bested him in a duel, so maybe he was safe. Harry allowed his eyes to drift to the top of the throne’s back, where a small snake wriggled between the points.

“I see…And what would _you_ do with the most powerful wand in the world, Harry?” asked Voldemort, and Harry, who had let his eyes drift again, dropped them instantly to Voldemort’s. Harry’s blood rushed cold, but the ruby eyes appeared so innocently void of emotion.

Harry’s mind blanked. The question Voldemort posed, although a simple query, held everything in the weight of its pointedness.

“Probably snap it in half. No one needs that much power,” said Harry breathlessly.

The automatic pull of those words from within him should have taken him by surprise, but for a moment, Harry was caught in the eyes that stared back at him.

Red eyes that swam with something incredibly dark, possessive, and...mesmeric. If only for a moment, Harry Potter was adrift in a deep, red sea, with only a horizon of blood to guide him.

Voldemort, eyes alight with something new, something dangerous that Harry hadn’t yet seen while looking up in them, opened his mouth to say something, but Harry beat him to it.

“But, well, Death comes to us all.”

As soon as the words, light things though they were, had left Harry’s lips, he instantly regretted them.

Although the rest of the discussion seemed harmless, Harry immediately recognized that he should have left that last part off.

Harry should have known that that would be a raw topic…what the Golden Trio and Dumbledore had almost completed…destroying all of Voldemort’s Horcruxes…

He was picked up by a magical force and thrown hard to his knees before Lord Voldemort. Harry winced, but it was wiped away under the awe of the terror that loomed above him, stood above him with such ferocious power.

“ _Death will not come to me, Harry Potter,”_ those red eyes, previously so hypnotic, bored into him. Every crevice in his mind was touched by the fury, and made him come undone. He had thoughts of nothing else, bar the words that boomed in his mind, in his ears, all around him. The voice rattled his bones and vibrated his teeth. The afternoon light was clouded over by the sheer force of darkness that was Lord Voldemort, and Harry was afraid to be so near to him, afraid of what he might do in such close proximity.

A hand grabbed ahold of his hair, and wrenched his head back, and Harry, gasping, felt as though Voldemort might, wildly, suck his very soul out, to become one with his Horcrux again.

The voice shook down Harry’s spine, reverberated down to the core of his being, and buried itself into the very depths of Harry’s magic as it continued.

“ _Death may be your savior, Harry Potter, but it is not mine. I am your savior now. You belong to me. There is no escape from my power over you. There is no independence that you can run to. You will follow me through this life, eternally, and you will have no rest for what you have done in the name of the Light. I have created my own beginning and I will have no end. You were my last threat,_ Harry Potter _, and you have been won.”_ Voldemort released Harry’s hair and Harry dropped heavily to the floor. His knees again smacked hard into the floorboards beneath the carpet.

Harry felt his eyes were impossibly wide. He did not—could not—look away as Voldemort backed up a step and sat back on his throne. His furious eyes never left Harry’s.

Gone was the all-consuming rage, gone was that voice which burrowed into Harry’s very marrow, to shatter and rebuild him in whatever image Voldemort demanded. The Dark wizard was as he had been in the beginning of their conversation—perfectly at leisure.

“You see, Harry _Potter_ ,” Voldemort spat, and Harry winced. “I don’t care for your theories. You are defeated. The war is won. The Magical community is being restored as we speak, and everyone, including you, will play their eventual part in ensuring that this new era under my regime is successful. Either that, or you and all those I am considering the fates of…will be dealt with.” Voldemort leaned forward, and leered over him, still knelt near the foot of the throne.

“And believe me…Harry…I won’t hold back if I find certain parties to be…uncooperative.” Voldemort spoke so quietly, such a shift from the hurricane of wrath that had just occurred.

Harry swallowed, his mind immediately flitting to Ron and Hermione, to the Weasleys.

Weren’t there far more who could be expected to continue to resist, though? Luna, McGonagall, Neville, everyone who was in the Great Hall when he left…they wouldn’t give up, and he couldn’t find it in himself to wish that they would.

The same realization washed over him again, as it had before he had left for the Forbidden Forest: Voldemort had to be stopped, no matter the cost.

Realistically, though, Harry knew that their band of resistance could not go on forever. Not without a leader to rally around. Longstanding, it had been Dumbledore, and Dumbledore had shown his trust in Harry, appointed Harry.

Harry had let them down, and to that point, he couldn’t find it in himself to say it wasn’t his fault.

What Voldemort was saying was a threat. It was a show of power.

Lord Voldemort had deliberately articulated that he didn’t care what Harry might have done, because he only cared that Harry hadn’t succeeded.

Voldemort had not allowed him to succeed.

There was now the past and there was the “glorious” future reign of the Dark. The future that Voldemort was apparently building…

“What have you done with those who fought at the Battle of Hogwarts?” Harry pushed himself to ask again. He had to be bold. He had to know if they were okay, at least for now.

In the beat of silence that followed, Harry was certain that Voldemort was about to tell Harry that it was none of his business and he would be wise to get used to the disappointment of not knowing about the world at large from here on in.

In that beat of silence, Voldemort stared at his face and he must have not seen anything but the desperate plea that it was—and absolutely relished Harry at his mercy—because for the second time, he surprised Harry by providing an answer.

“They are being considered for pardon in my new era,” Voldemort said softly. Harry was not certain if it was supposed to be a threatening tone or just…soft. His ears still rang and he was rattled from Voldemort’s speech, from the abuse on his freshly healed body.

“If they prove themselves.” Voldemort’s eyes glittered at that. “You, Harry, will not play a part until much later. Or, rather, if I deem you able to play it at all,” Voldemort said with cryptic seriousness.

Harry, still knelt on the floor, felt too relieved to hear that the Death Eaters and Dark forces must have not attacked the castle again. Voldemort surely would have gloated about how his friends were dead, would have listed them off one by one.

He did not that, and instead confusingly had said something about pardons.

Harry didn’t buy any of that for a moment, and his brow started to furrow as he realized that Voldemort really hadn’t given him much information at all. He was about to open his mouth to ask again, when Voldemort suddenly swept up in a billow of his cloak and vanished the throne in the blink of an eye. It was as though it had never been. Harry really must have suffered severe effects from that voice, because his questions died in the back of his throat, and his mind instantly became blank.

“I must confess, Harry, you have given me quite a lot to think about,” said Voldemort. He took a step forward and closed the space between them, and Harry now remembered his position on the floor. He carefully stood, and leaned his weight on his uninjured foot. Voldemort’s red gaze followed his rise and allowed it.

Harry said nothing. It was clear that Voldemort wasn’t going to tell him anything more. They stood closely, but Harry, on his hurt foot, could not exactly back away gracefully from the taller man.

Voldemort tilted his head a little as he scanned Harry’s face, and after a moment raised a hand and snaked it around the back of Harry’s neck.

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort sighed, before he continued in a low voice. “My prophesized adversary…you will be my greatest prize, yet.”

Then the Dark Lord leaned in, just as he had the previous night, but this time Harry was caught by the firm, cool fingers which encased the back of his neck, and offered no escape.

Harry felt the warm, damp breath coat the shell of his ear, as Voldemort slipped into Parseltongue and said in a low hiss,

“ _Be good to my sssoul.”_

Harry shivered. The bulb glowed in the back of his mind with some form of emotion that Harry didn’t understand, being so close to the man he so hated—it felt like raw power, like heady victory.

He just tried to stand as still as possible until the Dark Lord leaned back and took in a final invasive look at Harry’s face. Harry stared into those scarlet eyes, watched as they roved all around his face, so close. When he met Harry’s eyes again, the pupils were dilated. He dragged his nails around the side of Harry’s neck, and Harry felt the red lines left in their wake.

Then, in a swirl of black, he was gone.

Harry instantly collapsed on the bed, finally losing the ability to stand. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stop shaking. He punched the mattress.

He saw those red, slitted eyes—the depth of those irises—burned on the inside of his eyelids.

He punched the bed twice more.

“Bastard,” he whispered.

Harry took a few minutes to collect himself. He breathed steadily, and felt the bed under him, and grounded himself to it. He couldn’t forget what was real, in this very unreal, unplanned situation.

When he opened his eyes, he looked at where the throne had been, where now there was only a large space of white carpet. It might have all been a weird daydream, if Harry’s ear didn’t still feel oddly warm from Voldemort’s breath ghosting completely over it.

He sighed a frustrated sigh, and a flash caught his eye.

Against the far wall now sat a bowl, with a silver utensil stuck out of it. Shadows of steam curled in light that streamed upon it. _Soup_ , Harry thought gratefully. His stomach had stopped feeling hunger pangs for a while now, especially in the midst of all the other pain he had had to endure today.

Voldemort’s torturous presence seemed so bizarrely distant now, since Harry was not suffering the usual aftershocks. Whichever powerful spell had been used to heal him, which Harry knew was definitely due to him being the vessel of Voldemort’s stupid soul shard, had worked wonders.

All the same, he knew he was hungry now.

Dare he eat it, though? What if it was a trap? Harry limped a little on his way to the wall, crouching down in front of the bowl. It just appeared to be soup, and Harry did not sense anything nefarious.

 _Lord Voldemort_ had just left him. The Dark Lord wouldn’t want to hurt him from a distance, at least not this way. The older wizard seemed to have gotten some of the fury over Harry’s life being a new necessity out of his system in the day they had been together.

Satisfied with this logic, Harry took the bowl to his bed.

Simple vegetable soup; just like the Dursleys used to make.

In a lot of ways, this situation was very similar to his summers at the Dursley’s. The only real difference was that Harry had been left an unimpeded view of the outside world, instead of bars on the window. Oh, and there was no end in sight for his imprisonment.

There was no end of summer to look forward to. The Hogwarts Express would not be whisking him away on September 1st. Harry put the empty bowl on the bed beside him.

No, Harry may be far removed from the Wizarding World in this normal-looking bedroom, but he knew what it meant. This was a change. The sun still shone the same, the world kept turning, but everything had changed the second Voldemort had decided to question Fate.

The bowl refilled, and Harry hesitated before he picked up the bowl and ate more. He wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, after all. He didn’t know if the food would run out, or when it would come again. Harry chewed, sipped, and swallowed as slowly as possible as he thought further on the interaction he had just had with Voldemort.

Despite Voldemort’s knowledge about Harry’s theory of the existence of Master of Death, Harry didn’t know if the Dark Lord even believed in the validity of the other Hallows to the Elder Wand. He also hadn’t given any indication if he had actually gone to retrieve the Resurrection Stone from the Forest, although it continued to seem unlikely. More likely, was that Voldemort had instead just baited the information of the Stone’s importance out of Harry.

Voldemort also had the Invisibility Cloak. Harry had stupidly, in retrospect, given it to him in the Forest, falsely believing that he wouldn’t need it—and he wouldn’t have—if Voldemort didn’t think so much on the _whys_ of Harry’s actions. Harry guessed at some point his luck would run out—he just thought that it would have ended in death.

Technically, Harry didn’t really understand the allegiances of the Deathly Hallows outside of the Elder Wand. He assumed that the Invisibility Cloak was his by the bond of James Potter to him—that when his father died, the Cloak was truly passed to the next owner—and that the Resurrection Stone just had to be in the physical possession of someone for it to be owned.

Voldemort surely had no use for the Resurrection Stone, and he had enough magic on his side that he would never need to use the Invisibility Cloak—Voldemort certainly didn’t see the value of hiding away, his narcissism wouldn’t allow for that.

So, then…maybe he truly was just curious if Harry, if anyone, could be the Master of Death. If someone could rival Lord Voldemort’s confidence when it came to immortality.

Harry certainly did not want immortality; in fact, he surely hoped that he was not the Master of Death, and that when he dropped the Stone to the Forbidden Forest floor the possession of the title itself was broken.

If that was the case, then Harry had a shot to die in the future. Then it would be one step closer to Voldemort’s permanent end.

Harry quivered at that thought. That warmth still pressed on his ear, the request that Voldemort had made of Harry before he disappeared—to be _good_ to his soul.

Harry almost threw up what little food he had just ingested.

After he finished his third bowl of soup and set it on the floor next to the bed, it winked out of sight. Already Harry regretted indicating he was done.

He lay back on the bed, and stared out the window at the tree line and distant hills, upside-down. Harry chuckled to himself—he had to—because, despite the very dismal situation he was in, that did sum up the state of his world at the moment: turned on its head.


	5. Cursive Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thinks about who matters to him, and a particular piece of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and enjoying this story with me as it evolves.   
> It means the world to me that others are even semi-interested in this plot, and your reactions have been so lovely.  
> Give a comment or a keyboard smash if you want to. No worries if you don't :)  
> Enjoy!

Harry was always grateful that he paid attention to the small things, even if he didn’t know how it fit into the bigger picture. He just noticed a lot of things. Whether he did anything about them was another discussion. He was often stuck in his own head and unable to see the context outside of that, often through no fault of his own—often key people had made it their purpose to keep him in the dark on plans for the fight against Voldemort. It would all be so terribly ironic, if it hadn’t affected Harry so drastically.

Harry slept, dead to the world, and as it often happened when caught in this state, Harry dreamed.

The image of a long, white beard, clashing against garishly bright orange robes, swam into focus behind Harry’s eyelids. Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes materialized, and gazed at Harry over half-moon spectacles. Harry felt happiness or maybe relief wash over him, and Dumbledore smiled reassuringly in return, and gave a small nod.

Something wasn’t right, though.

Harry wanted to speak, he had to ask a question of his former Headmaster, or warn him of something. There was something he had to say, but Dumbledore just smiled serenely at him…and Harry remembered.

At that moment, a crash like a thunderclap resounded around where they stood, and Harry startled and turned to look behind him. He saw only a darkened platform. He heard it then; a high, cold laugh that resonated through the dreamscape and chilled Harry to the bone.

They were in great danger. He had to warn Dumbledore. Harry’s eyes roved the Astronomy Tower’s platform frantically, seeing nothing but darkened wood. He tried to take a step into the shadows, but his feet were frozen, nailed to the floor.

Harry tried to calm down, to think rationally under the pressure. Dumbledore could get them out of this; he could unfreeze Harry, and they would find a way out…

“Severus, Harry…” came a deep rasp.

Harry halted. Horrified of what he might see, he turned his head back, away from the shadows. The wooden floor of the Astronomy Tower undulated like an oil slick on the ocean waves. Dumbledore was collapsed and covered in oil, and his orange robes had been stained a deep, muddy brown.

“Severus…is who I need…Harry, hurry…Severus…” Dumbledore’s voice had weakened to a whisper.

Harry tried to yell, to tell Dumbledore that Voldemort was _here_ , they had to get _away_ , but he had no voice. He couldn’t remember how his jaw worked. He just stared helplessly at his incapacitated Headmaster, drained from the cursed drink that Harry should have taken instead.

Something sleek and heavy slunk up behind him and pressed down on his shoulders, pushing his whole body into the floor. It hissed.

“ _Harry…”_

A flash of vibrant green burst over Harry’s shoulder and hurtled toward Dumbledore, who looked up at Harry with eyes that twinkled no more.

Harry’s own shout jerked him fully awake. His clothes clung to his sweaty body, and he felt instantly colder when he sat up, and his eyes flitted cautiously around.

The room was dark. He looked to the window, and the moon was a faint glow behind its shroud of steadily moving clouds. The hills were just shadowy mounds in the distance, practically blended with the night sky. Harry pressed his palms into his eyes and inhaled deeply.

A week Harry had slept in this bed and dreamed, to avoid having to face the boredom of being awake in the stark blankness of the room. Harry had stayed awake almost two full days after his last interaction with Voldemort, but the Dark Lord had not returned after that first day.

A week he had left Harry to oscillate between the angst of wakefulness, and the nightmares of sleep.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t go to sleep again, he didn’t want to meet anyone else tonight—Dumbledore, weak and on the Astronomy Tower; Cedric, standing tall before being blasted by the Killing Curse in the Little Hangleton cemetery; his parents, his mother’s screams echoing in his head as she collapsed in his nursery; Sirius, the ghost of his last laugh still creasing his face, falling through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries; Lupin, transforming into a werewolf and hunting him through the Forbidden Forest, corralling him towards a horde of Dementors…

All the nightmares had Voldemort’s laugh in them, as if he were in the background of every one, orchestrating Harry’s terror. Harry wouldn’t put it past the man, but Harry did think it was his very own mind that replayed all of these awful events, dredged up from the trauma of his capture and subsequent events, before being isolated for days.

Disgruntled by everything, Harry tried to keep a lid on his emotions.

He flipped back the covers and headed into the bathroom. He didn’t look in the mirror; he had already made that mistake. Two days prior, he had had bags under his eyes, tousled hair that brushed around his neck and hung in his eyes, and scratches on his cheeks and neck from, well, just general life, he supposed. If he was a little worse for wear then, he couldn’t imagine that two more days of restlessness had done much to help his appearance.

Harry opened the glass door to the shower, reached in, and turned on the water. He peeled off the black t-shirt and shorts, discarded them to the floor, and stepped into the lukewarm spray.

When Voldemort had left a week ago, he had told Harry to be good to his soul. Those words still hung heavy in Harry’s head, like the knowledge of the parasite within was eating at his conscience. All it said to him was that he needed to find a way to get rid of it.

Harry had felt sorry for himself for about a day. When he realized that Voldemort probably wasn’t going to come back for a while, he had poked around his accommodations. The bathroom was nice; mostly white and gray tile, washed out colors like the bedroom. The exception was the cabinets, which were black, like the wardrobe he had refused to open for fear of it being a Magical pest’s dwelling. He wouldn’t assume that Voldemort had had any hand in the decorating or design, but all the same…it needed work.

His first shower that day had been, in a word, filthy. He hadn’t realized how much dirt had accumulated on his skin, in his hair. The water ran black, brown, and for a brief moment, red. The independent rivulets had streamed off of him, and swirled down into the drain at his feet. Harry had wished that the water had run hotter then, as he did again now.

Harry shivered and shut off the water. For a moment he just stood there with his hand on the valve handle and prepared himself for another day of waiting…for something, anything, to happen—for news to come to him in some form of what had happened in the world outside of his walls of captivity.

He toweled off, brushed his teeth, and headed back into the bedroom. The carpeting always felt good on the soles of his feet after a shower. It was one of the few comforts he could distinguish and hold onto while being held in this room.

He opened the wardrobe to find, as he expected, black jeans and a black t-shirt, folded at the bottom.

After his first shower, Harry had discovered that his dirty, torn, generally worn clothing had disappeared, and he had had nothing to change into. He feared to eventually be caught in a towel by Lord Voldemort, so, after he had earnestly looked high and low for his old clothes, he had braved a peek into the wardrobe.

It had just been an empty chest, with two folded outfits at the bottom. Black jeans and a black t-shirt, and shorts and another t-shirt, also black. No underwear, which had alarmed Harry at first, but Harry supposed he had never seen undergarments sold in the shops of Diagon Alley, either. Overall, the outfits seemed a little too…Muggle.

Harry, a most-hated prisoner, supposed that the Muggle outfits were to make him feel displaced from the Magical community, but Harry found them to be very comfortable, and they fit, which was a change from the Muggle clothes he was used to wearing. He missed his old jacket, though, and wished he knew when Voldemort had pilfered his moleskin pouch off of his person. He had noticed it missing the second night, when he had gone to look in the two-way mirror shard’s reflection, as had become his habit when camping for the whole of the last year.

He pulled on the black jeans and t-shirt swiftly, not wanting to be caught in a state of undress outside of the bathroom at any point, since Voldemort—regardless of his lack of return since—had just popped into his room unannounced before.

He glanced at the thin, black robe that hung, lonely, off to one side of the wardrobe. Harry didn’t know why it was even there; it wasn’t as though he would be going outside anytime soon. He curled his toes into the carpet. Staying barefoot had been a change, but Harry kind of liked it after a week. That said, if he were to ever get out of this room, he would need something on his feet. He closed the wardrobe.

Harry walked to the window and confirmed that there was no sign of the sun coming up anytime soon. He must have hardly slept at all.

He groaned and turned around to flop back on the bed. The ceiling, blank as ever, felt like a solid reflection of his emotional state. He closed his eyes, ignored his growing hunger, and began to meditate as he had been for the last four days.

Meditation, or Harry’s version of it, had been his sure line of distraction during this isolation. It grounded him, because he was able to just think for hours—on memories, on his compartments, and, most importantly, on the people he loved. He would have liked to say that he was practicing much-needed mental diversion tactics or Occlumency, but he didn’t have that sort of discipline for the mind arts, and getting frustrated was not on his to-do list; he was trying to minimize his stress and emphasis on his current predicament and failures, not add to them.

His thoughts weren’t organized or shielded, but they were a comfort to him, an endless stream of thoughts that melded together to form a daydream of sorts.

He thought of his friends, mostly. Ron and Hermione had plenty of happy memories associated with them without trying too hard, so his mind easily drifted from trips to Hogsmeade, or talking in their seats by the common room fire in the evenings. He couldn’t have put any emphasis on which conversations he was reminiscing on, just that the feelings of safety and home nearly overwhelmed him. He wished he could go back to the time before his fourth year at Hogwarts, when there were worries, as he had never had a quiet year at Hogwarts, but in retrospect those worries were just mild grievances compared to what he was up against now.

Quidditch always made him smile a bit, of course. It quelled his anxiety, which, even as he relived his memories, he was aware of in the background.

Inevitably, Quidditch would make him think of his teammates, one of whom he would give anything to see at any time, but especially now.

For a while, he avoided thoughts that solely pertained to Ginny; he hadn’t wanted his memories of her to be tainted by this experience. After day three, thoughts of her practically seeped into his bouts of meditation and became his greatest comfort.

Memories, and even fantasies of Ginny, were inescapable. He fell into them and melted like butter on a hot pan.

Harry had tried so hard to put their relationship on hold over the last year, to not think of her so much when he was on the run, all for her safety, always for her protection. He worried that if Voldemort knew the depths of his feelings for the youngest Weasley, the deep and uncharted love that he yearned for and found the beginnings of with her, then the Dark Lord would target her or worse, and Harry would have no choice but to run to her, to intervene before another person he loved dearly was lost.

There was no ultimatum now, though. It wasn’t fight the good fight or be with Ginny. He would always be fighting, until the bitter end. Harry still needed that love, that very feeling that consumed his sixth year with jealousy and desperation to share how he felt. Love was just that powerful; it transcended any circumstance, and it came back, sometimes in unexpected ways.

Well, Ginny Weasley had always been more, hadn’t she?

She had that connection with Tom Riddle that was closer to Harry’s experience than anyone else. It was Ginny that had been enslaved to the possessions and whims of the Heir of Slytherin throughout her first year at Hogwarts, and it was Ginny who had almost died in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry had saved her then, when he hadn’t even yet seen her in the radiant light in which he saw her now.

He missed Ginny. So much, thoughts of her consumed whole afternoons in this past week. He loved her, how could he not? She was brave, like him, but in a ferocious way. She had soft, lightly freckled skin, and long silky red hair. When it came to Quidditch prowess, she could command any room—or at least Harry thought she could. She certainly had his attention anytime she was near.

God, did he love her. Simply, and with a raw, weathered honesty that came with the trepidation of being unsure how to be hers.

Things had changed sixth year, when he had noticed that Ginny wasn’t just another Weasley sibling that he had come to adore—she was sweet, but not quiet like Bill; she had the fire for adventure, like Charlie; she was as outspoken and quick to conflict as Ron; she was funny, but with quips and wit, instead of pranks like George and…Fred. Harry pushed his dread back, the pain of loss, the vision of his friends and chosen family standing over Fred’s body—the vision that surely replayed every night he had been here, in the way that he had been terrorized by Cedric’s sudden end in a flash of green…

He was transported then, to run from his traumas, and found himself sat with Ginny by the Black Lake, as they basked in the sunlight of the end of their exams. It was a false memory, and in a way, happier.

They had sat by the Lake after Dumbledore’s funeral at the end of his sixth year. They had just shared the companionship and comfort of each other. Ginny made life easy, in a way Harry had never felt life could be. It was as calm and still as the Lake’s surface, reflecting the castle turrets far above the water. He didn’t need to explain anything to Ginny, she just understood. She didn’t ask him questions, and she stood by him as much as Ron and Hermione always had.

He remembered the first time he noticed one of those small things he liked to pay such close attention to, and commit to memory—subtle blonde streaks reflected in the sunlight, intermixed in those long, remarkably silken red strands. Harry would like to have taken Ginny’s beauty in that moment of calm by the Black Lake—before he had to go on the run, before the world completely collapsed into the brutality of Voldemort’s regime—and bottled it, so they would always be together like that. A moment trapped forever, just as it was.

Often, he wondered if she thought of him and where he might have gone the night of the Battle of Hogwarts. No one had seen him leave, there had not been one goodbye shared. If he had tried, he never could have gone through with it. In retrospect, he didn’t know if it mattered. He supposed that the fact he had shown up had prevented another siege on the castle by the Dark forces. He should have considered that a win, but he surely didn’t.

He wanted someone to know where he was, someone who loved him enough to be worried for him as much as he worried so frantically for those he had left behind at the Battle.

Harry would find Ginny again, though, and they would have a life together. Or try to just get away from it all. Maybe even have a few kids, and they could name them after the people they had lost, to pay homage to their sacrifice in the name of what they thought was right—a living memorial to Dumbledore, to his parents, to Sirius.

He was definitely getting ahead of himself, but Harry wanted a family, he wanted to deserve love, and he wanted it in the worst way. He wanted to make up for how his childhood had never been—he wanted to put better karma into this messed up world.

His mother had passed that knowledge and protection onto him: there was no greater power than love. Love did not possess, it did not conquer, it was gentle and freely given. It was the persistence of life and emotion. Love was everything.

So, yes, Harry would find Ginny again, and he would take her in his arms and explain how he was fine and that it was all over—because it would be, when they met again. That was probably the only outcome that allowed them to be together at all…and when that time came Harry vowed to be fine, and put all of this behind him. Better karma…a better life.

Harry missed his friends, who grounded him and kept him sane for so many years when he could have spiraled.

 _Why_ did he ever go to the Forbidden Forest and get himself into this mess? He needed Hermione’s brains to guide him, and what he wouldn’t give to hear Ron try to laugh off their situation and give Harry the encouragement, however hollow, that they would pull through.

Harry groaned, frustrated, and turned over on his side.

A clink from the far corner of the room dragged him to lean up. He squinted through the darkness to the place where food always appeared, three times a day.

He slid off of the bed and went to the corner where there was a bowl of oatmeal. It was hot, as most of his meals were.

Comparatively, that was an aspect that was a very small improvement over the summers of confinement at the Dursleys, most aptly in reference to the summer before his second year at Hogwarts. Aunt Petunia had always served him cold and soggy vegetable soup through the cat flap drilled into the bedroom door; now, a bowl of hot something—be it soup, oatmeal, or stew—appeared a few times a day, and the dish didn’t sit around and mock him as it had back then, in his wretched childhood; it either refilled or winked out of sight.

Oh, good. He had found something to be grateful for in review of the imprisonments he had been subjected to throughout his short life…that was just great…

Harry thought almost obsessively about his friends and Ginny, because there was nothing to do in what was essentially a padded cell. He glared at the carpet as he spooned some oatmeal into his mouth. He finished two bowls while he mostly stared out at the darkened landscape beyond the window. He supposed another aspect he could be grateful for was that there were no bars to obstruct the view, as there had been at the Dursleys.

Hooray, Harry thought glumly. There were just invisible wards to keep him trapped forever.

Harry usually stargazed throughout this part of the night, in between when he ate and got lost in his thoughts. The sky was still darkened by clouds, though. Harry wished he could be as freely adrift over the world as those condensed water droplets were, to feel the wind as it pushed him around, and to be one with the sky.

Harry had spent a not-insignificant amount of his time in daydreams devoted to thoughts of escape, as well. None of his ideas had been viable so far. He had had a few run-ins when he tested the window’s wards on day three, which had either shocked him or otherwise showed that it was impervious to his will to get through it. He had also tried to bring forth that accidental magic that had appeared when he was in a heightened sense of stressed entrapment. He came close, when he had attempted to summon a Bluebell Flame, but it always stopped, just below the surface, as though his magic were trapped beneath his skin.

Harry sighed, and bent down to place the empty bowl back on the ground. After a moment, it predictably vanished.

This time, however, Harry was struck with a sudden, mad thought, as he stared at the place the bowl had disappeared.

If he couldn’t get out, maybe someone could get in.

Harry had seen bread sometimes accompanied with the soups and stews he had received, and he realized that it was not inconceivable that House Elves were somewhere in the building, that the tiny creatures were undoubtedly the ones who monitored when Harry woke up, and had food sent to him.

If a House Elf responded to his call for them, perhaps they could Apparate him out, as Dobby did for them at Malfoy Manor—Harry’s heart gave a sad heave at the thought of Dobby…brave, bold, Dobby…a free elf.

Harry felt his eyes prickle with the beginnings of tears and he shut down that path of thought at once.

He needed to focus. Focus on his escape, and then he could mourn—for there were so many he needed to grieve for.

He threw himself down on the bed and stared at the door. He willed a House Elf to him, just thought with all his might for one to appear. After a minute, he switched tactics.

“Hey,” he said quietly to the room; he grimaced, his voice sounded strange and loud in the empty darkness. He got up and turned on the bathroom light, so it shone a square of yellow into the bedroom, and resumed his seated position on the bed.

“Winky,” he mumbled into his empty space. “Blinky...Hokey...Warby…Eustis…Seamus…What’s a House Elf name, anyway, it could be anything,” Harry grumbled to himself.

Harry’s eyes flew open. He really was an idiot to forget about Kreacher.

“Kreacher!” Harry hissed, as loud as he dared without knowledge of who else was in the house and their proximity. He did not want to be caught while he brainstormed or executed his escape.

Nothing happened. Harry frowned, disappointed.

“Kreacher!” he hissed again, a little louder. Moments passed with no loud crack of Apparition, and no pig-faced House Elf to help him out of his mess.

Harry definitely had expected Kreacher to come…He hoped that no ill fate had happened to the fanatical Elf of the Black House. He willed another Elf to come to him, but in the end, Harry was alone here.

He groaned and threw himself back against the pillows. He knew it was the biggest shot in the dark, but it was still a blow for his sudden plan to not work out. Maybe the House Elves were given strict instructions that they weren’t allowed to talk to or visit him. If…Dobby…was afraid of the Malfoys, Harry could only imagine the fear Voldemort inspired in his servants. He shuddered at the thought. Hermione was right about House Elf rights.

Harry lay on his side again and stared out the window in wait of the sun to rise.

He didn’t know where Voldemort had been this past week. He could only hope that the Dark Lord was not engaged in what Harry suspected, which was that he had very publicly told everyone Harry was a coward who ran away from the Battle of Hogwarts before the second wave, and had abandoned his friends and his cause; hopefully Voldemort had not spread any propaganda like that. There would have been no sign of Harry after the first wave, though, would there have been? That was pretty incriminating. Harry considered attempting to sleep again to avoid these very unpleasant thoughts.

He decided to try not to think so hard about what Voldemort may or may not have written and touted with Harry’s name attached, over the past few days. It was surely more than nothing, but that was not something he could control.

Harry breathed slowly out of his nose and closed his eyes. Despite only recently waking, he already felt so tired.

Harry was very much used to dealing with things outside of his control, though. It was a practice long acquired from his childhood at the Dursleys. On one such childhood day, a rare trip to the city’s shopping mall with his Aunt and Dudley had occurred. Harry had tried to commit something of that day to memory. It had seemed pertinent and poignant at the time, and had only evolved in its importance when Harry needed to cope with a disadvantageous event.

Harry remembered a saying burned prettily into a wooden plaque, which stuck out in the kitchen appliances aisle. He had never seen decor like that up to that point in his life—the Dursleys only seemed to hang their family photos, and he tried in his childhood not to notice or care that he had never been included in them. Truthfully, it used to really bother him. That’s why that cursive engraving on that cedar board had held such meaning to him when he read it, all those years ago.

He bit his lip; the words were right there, on the tip of his tongue, but he struggled with them now. He saw the board, felt Dudley sock him in the arm and try to push him over when Aunt Petunia had turned away to compare blenders or something equally as tedious.

He sighed in frustration and willed himself to remember the saying, which had helped him through such tough times when he was shut away for days in the cupboard under the stairs, which escaped him now.

He got up, not so much tired as irritated now that the exact words evaded him. The sky was showing the first lightening from its darker hues to the dawn. He sat himself down on the floor against the bed’s footboard so he faced the door, and returned to his position of his palms held to his eyes.

“Accept the situations...no. Change your perspective about stuff that you can’t change…” Harry muttered to himself. He pushed the heels of his palms into his eyelids, making his worldview darker, hoping it would help him focus.

“Don’t worry about the things you can’t change, it doesn’t matter anyway…that doesn’t sound right.” He iterated through several versions of the possible wording.

He just wanted a phrase that he could say to himself when things weren’t going at all how he needed them to, such as now. Why was this so difficult?

Choose to think of only the things that you can control? He mouthed the words. The phrase was in that same school of thought, Harry just felt so mentally blocked.

Only work on the things you have no control over? He had control over his Godfather and Lupin killing Pettigrew…but Harry and his damn need to stop murder…if he had just let them…then maybe Voldemort could have been delayed in his return to power…if he had just kept his mouth shut and let life run its course…none of the bad stuff over the last three years would have happened…he could have been stronger…he could have been older…prepared to face someone like Voldemort…

No. He couldn’t think that way. It was not how life was.

Harry took a deep breath in frustration, leaned his head back against the foot of the bed, and blinked his eyes open again. His heart leapt painfully and he smacked his head on the footboard behind him.

“Sweet God!” exclaimed Harry, his hands half-thrown up in defense. He took a steadying breath, as his startled heart hammered away.

“Not quite,” came the silken reply. Voldemort stood next to the claw-footed wardrobe, long fingers woven together and hairless white head tilted slightly in observation of the younger wizard sat before him on the floor, who he had just violently scared out of his calm focus.

Harry was suddenly flustered for no reason. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but how long had the snake been standing there…His face flushed.

“What are you _doing?!_ Don’t sneak up on me like that! You scared the life out of me!” Harry spluttered defensively, and flushed more at his words when his head caught up to his reaction.

“Let’s hope not,” smirked Voldemort.

Harry shot him the filthiest glare he could manage as he scrambled up from his crossed-legged position. He hated to give Voldemort anything close to imagery of him at his feet, especially after last time. The man’s ego was already saturated with pride and smugness.

“What were you doing?” the Dark Lord asked, perfectly composed, as though he spied on people all the time. _Oh, wait._

“That’s none of your business,” said Harry, who felt vindictive after being so thoroughly tossed from one frame of mind to another. He shook his head, and looked out the window. His scar gave a pinch.

“Ow,” Harry stated deliberately, and punctuated his irritation with a glare.

“Manners, Harry,” warned Voldemort, reminiscent of their last encounter. His red eyes glinted in the early morning light.

“I have them, I _choose_ to not use them with people who don’t deserve respect. Sorry if I never say sorry,” said Harry boldly. His chin tilted up defiantly as he braced for retaliation.

“You insolent—” began Voldemort, but cut himself off, seemingly at great personal cost, as he rubbed the crease that had formed between his eyes. Harry’s eyes widened in note of the abruptness, and realized Voldemort probably would have pinched the bridge of his nose to stem his anger—if he had one.

“Harry,” Voldemort restarted calmly, although it sounded as though he was barely hanging onto his patience. “I just wish to know what you were meditating on so intently.”

“Mmm, why?” asked Harry airily. He always was so stupid when it came to the decision of when to exercise his Gryffindor recklessness. Harry didn’t know why he had to be contrary when Voldemort had so obviously decided to play on the side of civility for once; it was just a natural reflex Harry had against him.

“Your concerns are mine,” Voldemort said simply, as though it were an explanation for everything. “In this political climate, it would suit me very well—”

Harry’s eyes widened further, and his eyebrows shot up at Voldemort’s blunt admittance.

“Well, you know how accommodating I have always promised to be for you and your political goals,” interrupted Harry with a snort. It just sort of slipped out; Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

Voldemort had stopped again. Harry saw his teeth grit together so tight, he was surprised that the man’s jaw hadn’t audibly cracked.

“It would be…useful to me, if you could apply your minimal understanding and fall into line with me willingly, Harry,” continued Voldemort in a perilously composed voice.

“Does this have anything to do with what you’ve been saying about me in the papers?” asked Harry shrewdly.

“How have you been reading the paper?” Voldemort’s brow creased again, and Harry felt the fury as it spiked, most likely headed in the wrong direction. Harry thought of the poor House Elves who had followed their orders and avoided Harry to the tee, and quickly moved to intercept the Dark Lord’s darkening thoughts.

“So you _have_ been writing news about me?” Harry folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow. A clear show that he had gotten Voldemort to unintentionally admit something to him.

“Ah, very good, Harry, and here I was, convinced that you didn’t have a single clever bone in your body.” Voldemort’s lip curled into patronizing sneer.

Harry felt his frustration rise at the underestimation. “I have escaped you multiple times,” he unwisely reminded the other man.

“Luck!” snarled Voldemort, and Harry’s hands immediately shook at the flip to rage. He balled them into fists, before Voldemort raised his chin and stared down at Harry. Control of his anger gathered once more, he tsked at the younger wizard.

“Luck. You don’t have a hope of escaping now.” The gaze appraised him, and darkened to a bloody color.

Harry shrugged.

“Still early on. Day…eight?” Harry said thoughtfully, as though he hadn’t religiously counted the days.

He hoped he sounded casual; he was far from feeling so. His chest constricted from the stress of just having Voldemort so close; Harry felt forced to tip toe around the uncertain corners of the conversation for his own safety.

Harry felt the pressure of those eyes upon him, the reminder of the capable wizard before him, with no qualms for violence for the sake of violence, or worse. Harry didn’t even know what his ‘protection’ under the man before him could possibly entail. The closest protected thing that could be counted was Nagini, but she was a pet, not a human being. She did not have any life experience or thoughts beyond the kill-or-be-killed survivalist mentality of the animal kingdom. Would Harry be debased then, to suit that mold? He certainly hoped not.

Harry’s chest and throat tightened as he became uncomfortably tense. No matter how deeply or often he breathed, there was not enough air entering his lungs. It was never enough. He was closed in, impressed upon, and there was no escape, and that was the last kind of stress he needed to constantly keep at the forefront of his mind.

Voldemort said nothing, and Harry watched his eyes as they drifted off of him and to the window. Harry grit his teeth defensively.

Voldemort had that look in his eye that Uncle Vernon had had throughout his childhood, when he pretended to deliberate taking something away from Harry, drawing out the anticipation before whatever it was—a toy, clothes, food—would be snatched away. Harry’s stomach writhed at those memories, and felt his face twist into an unpleasant frown.

“Do you like this window, Harry?” Voldemort asked easily as he gazed at the hills, bathed golden in the half-risen sun. Harry felt the Dark Lord’s amusement click on and off like a lighter within the bulb at the back of his mind. As if Voldemort truly was in deliberation whether or not to punish the younger wizard, to deprive him of the only real distraction in the room.

“I think that my affection for the window is irrelevant. Do you like it?” deflected Harry tersely.

Voldemort allowed the smallest quirk of a smirk at Harry’s response, as he continued his far gaze through the glass.

“Yes, I quite enjoy being outside, and I like being able to view it as I please,” Voldemort goaded Harry, taunted him about not being able to go out.

It was Harry’s turn to be silent.

‘Lucky’ wouldn’t be the word Harry would use to describe his life experience, as Voldemort had suggested, but in a way he was slightly glad that he had the experience of being so deprived so consistently in his life. It made his current captivity comprehensible. He was probably no more threatened now than he had been in his childhood, just to a different degree. He had been held for longer, felt hopeless for longer.

The other man seemed to decide that removal of the window would be inconvenient, or he figured that Harry would be more tormented if allowed to see the outside world, and remained unable to fully enjoy it.

“Not going to tell me what you were thinking?” repeated Voldemort with the same unnervingly calm curiosity he had displayed earlier. “Or do you truly wish to not be included in plans for the future of the Wizarding World, pawn though you would be?”

Harry ignored that last part for the blackmail it was; he knew that Voldemort would tell him what he needed to know, and nothing more, so there wasn’t much point if Harry took a position in the open or not. If it were necessary, he wouldn’t be given a choice.

“Probably just cooking up an escape,” said Harry with a shrug, and resisted the snort at Voldemort’s mistrust as he immediately felt a firm, unsurprising tug at his mind. Harry tried to not to resist. Although, if he faltered in his focus of keeping his mind entirely open for the Dark Lord to tear through, it switched to a rough, jostled experience, as if nails scraped the inside of his skull.

Voldemort moved with swift ruthlessness, as he searched for any hole in his security that Harry may have found in his absence, which was none. Harry felt his thoughts fall into disarray, like the Dark Lord had come into his filing room of memories, ripped into many boxes, and left papers strewn everywhere.

When Voldemort retreated from his search of Harry’s mind, Harry was sweaty and disoriented, and had a hell of a headache.

The Dark wizard before him had an unreadable expression on his face, and Harry was too tired from the mental disarray that he had just experienced to check on the lightning rod at the back of his mind, to gain any insight of what that blank face was trying to tell him.

“Harry…” Voldemort began in that faux-sympathetic voice that made Harry’s hair stand on end. “It is only natural to want to flee from your new position, but, believe me, acceptance will be a far more beneficial course for you.”

Harry had the sense that Voldemort only said this to emphasize how futile it was to escape, given how he had locked down the room.

“Also, it would be in your best interest to cease harassment of the House Elves,” drawled Voldemort. Harry’s ears perked that this; so there were Elves around, and they had heard him!

Voldemort dashed that sudden rush of possibility when he continued.

“They are nearly killing themselves over obeying their orders—“ his ruby eyes gleamed, “or catering to the pleas of the _Chosen One_ , so high above their station…”

“Wha—what? I didn’t—“ Harry snapped his jaw shut and silenced his protests when he saw the murderous expression on Voldemort’s face.

“Okay,” said Harry bitterly. He didn’t want any harm to come to the Elves; he was being told that it would not end well for them if he continued his attempts to reach out.

Voldemort studied Harry’s face.

“Yesss, I know all about your use of Elf magic to escape from Malfoy Manor most recently. I am not one to repeat an error.”

Harry almost let out an involuntary laugh at that. He quickly covered it with a cough, and squinted at the window in determined interest. He didn’t look at Voldemort; he felt him fuming. To be plain, Harry was quite chagrined at being caught in his minor schemes.

“Got it, right,” appeased Harry, and gave a slight nod to quell the other’s mounting anger. “I will not ask the House Elves to come to me, even though it is so dreadfully boring in this room.” He left it at that. No harm, no foul.

After a long moment of silence, Harry felt he could no longer use the excuse of staring at the rising sun as a form of appropriate interest. Harry flicked his eyes to the Dark Lord, just to catch if he was about to be struck down with a curse for his sarcasm. Voldemort had a peculiar look on his face, one not only of interest, but also of a darker quality. The expression was wiped away to blankness before Harry could consider it more.

“I am very, shall we say, satisfied at having you trapped and wasting away, here,” said Voldemort cruelly, but it lacked the bite it might have had if Harry could not feel a shift within that orb in his mind. That emotion that filled the space within their bond with such thick and smoky darkness, with a mental furor that was unexpectedly…possessive.

That wild darkness did not match Voldemort’s pale expression now, but it had been there, and it was there within Harry’s own mind, clear as the daylight that streamed in behind him. It was not hatred, as Harry had experienced before; it was a deep unexplainable curiosity.

Unexplainable, because Harry had never known Voldemort to really question anything; he was more of a schemer and a doer, a destroyer of anything else that stood in his way. Voldemort had said he was curious of Harry before, but those were just words of intimidation, not a genuine desire to _know_. Maybe Harry had been wrong in his judgment of just how seriously Voldemort took him.

Then again, why was Harry even bothered to try to decipher the roulette of emotions Voldemort tended to have.

The older wizard glanced at the window again. Harry felt wary; as if Voldemort were about to return to whatever agenda he had planned for his captive when he entered to find Harry caught in his past.

Oh…Harry repressed the swell of happiness that abruptly bloomed. He had finally remembered the wording of the burnt cursive saying that had evaded him earlier.

“Well, Harry,” leered Voldemort suddenly, and that new, ballooning happiness deflated. “I’m afraid that our time will have to be cut short. I’m expected at the Ministry to sign some new legislature…”

A pause, before he divulged, “I admit, you took me by surprise. I had intended to punish you severely for attempting an escape after the Elves notified me, but you took me off guard with your heavy concentration. You may have noticed that you cannot access your magic,” Voldemort smirked. “I have expanded the warding and that magical containment that you are familiar with from last we saw of each other,”—Harry glowered at the mention of the hamster ball of magic—“and for that reason I shielded his whole room from the outside.”

Harry’s demeanor had gotten more and more sulky the more Voldemort had to say. The Dark Lord just smiled sharply, the highest condescension.

“There’s one thing I should like to impress upon you, Harry,” and Voldemort took a step toward him, but he was too far in his angst to even feel the fear.

“You are _mine_. The thoughts you have of evading me are pointless. I have won. Is that unclear to you?”

He waited.

“I asked you a question,” he growled.

“Yes, it’s clear,” hissed Harry furiously. He just wanted the other man to leave, if that’s what he had to do. Important Ministry things, right.

“Good boy,” Voldemort said, and Harry didn’t have any time to react before spindly fingers threaded through his fringe, and pushed it out of the way of his scar. Voldemort’s eyes traced the mark. Harry shut his eyes and attempted to block out everything. He tried to think of something else, of his friends, of Quidditch, but he came up blank.

Harry jumped slightly when Voldemort’s thumb traced the lightning bolt scar, and then smoothed over Harry’s eyebrow. Nails slid from his hair and dragged down his cheek. The fingers fell away, leaving a trail of sensation in their wake, traces of where they had been. Harry opened his eyes.

“This is where you belong,” Voldemort hissed, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was Parseltongue or not. His head swam. “Right where I can always find you.”

Harry shivered under that impressive statement; he really was just another Horcrux—this warded room was the chosen hideaway for him to dwell, a possession on the figurative shelf. Voldemort took a moment more to just appraise Harry’s whole being. Then he turned to leave, or maybe to vanish into thin air.

Harry was suddenly struck by a sudden need, enough to clear his foggy mind.

“Wait!” he called out, although he need not have shouted, as Voldemort was still only feet from him.

“Er,” Harry struggled under the knowledge that he had the man’s full attention. Voldemort went so far as to tilt his head slightly over his shoulder, an indication for Harry to continue. “C-can I have socks?” Harry felt that it sounded weird even as it left his mouth, but it was something he needed.

Voldemort covered his confusion with a simple question, as he turned back around to face Harry.

“Socks?” His hairless brows rose.

“Er, yeah.” Harry wasn’t sure if he needed to explain past that.

Voldemort didn’t break eye contact or say anything, just withdrew his wand from his sleeve. Harry’s stomach lurched in recognition of the Elder Wand in Voldemort’s hand, not the yew one.

He waved it at Harry, which elicited an involuntarily flinch. Harry blinked a few times, but Voldemort was already tucking the Elder Wand back into his sleeve. He looked down at himself to see that the Dark Lord had conjured socks right onto his feet; black, just like all the other parts of his outfit.

“Er, thanks.” Harry felt awkward that he had flinched when the other man had just granted his request without his usual demands for clarification. Even though it was a perfectly normal reaction, after the amount of times Harry had been subjected to painful curses at the hands of the other.

“Stay out of trouble, Harry,” he said with a slight quirk of his mouth. For how much trouble could Harry cause in a room with basically nothing in it…

With that, Lord Voldemort was gone.

He had also said nothing to the effect of when he would return. So…Harry was alone again.

He moved to the bed again. The sun had mostly risen to daylight by now.

At least one good thing had come from Voldemort’s surprise visit: the Dark wizard’s violent rummage through Harry’s head had managed to shake him from his mental block, and he recalled the words burned into that wooden plaque all those years ago.

He whispered them to himself several times. He refused to be grateful to Voldemort’s invasion of his privacy to get to this point, but there it was. The Dark Lord had asked him with such curiosity what Harry had mulled over, when he must have disregarded the very answer in his search. He had probably seen the quote on a board as something to disregard as a whimsical memory, not something Harry would use to maintain some of his sanity in isolation.

He said the words out loud, committed them into his memory.

“I will accept the things I cannot change, change the things I can control, and learn the wisdom to know the difference.”

He gave a small, satisfied smile, and looked out the window. He saw all of the spiky treetops, the green hills beyond; symbols of the freedom he didn’t have.

His smile faltered.

No, he had to get his life under his control; it wasn’t enough to accept the difficulties he had. He had to get out of here; it wasn’t enough to be able to cope in the meantime. Harry had to change the things he could not accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the Angela Davis reference at the end there; it's a favorite of mine.  
> I'm also on Tumblr, same username, if anyone's into that and wants to follow. I'm late to the Tumblr party, but having a great time.


	6. Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is sad and neglecting his health in isolation--definitely not a relatable concept in real life...   
> A conversation happens and a gift is given, which isn't a gift. Well it is, but it's not. You'll see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: borrowing the characters from J.K. Rowling  
> Notes: This chapter became much longer than I anticipated; I hope you like it.   
> There's a turn coming up after this, so I hope you all have your seat belts buckled.  
> You all have literally been so sweet and kind with your enthusiasm for the plot. Thank you, and I will do my very best to continue to deliver.  
> Enjoy.

Harry had time to think, after that. Days went on; the sun rose, shone, glowed, and sank. Harry sat a lot, or paced, or stared at the door with his back against the headboard—his best attempts to not be surprised again by a sudden appearance of the Dark Lord.

Other times, he watched the foothills for life.

He saw a few rabbits in the expansive yard one afternoon. There were birds, but they were too far away to really appreciate before they dove low into the treetops and out of sight.

There really wasn’t much—or anything at all—to do, which frustrated him to no end. Despite Harry’s attempts to occupy his body with motion, it was useless, and he often found himself zoned out.

Harry thought. He thought a lot, as one does when they are alone with only their life experience and metaphors for company. Most unfortunately, those metaphors were becoming darker by the day.

Harry currently sat, caught in one of his darker daydreams. One where the Dark Lord laughed behind him in his high, cruel pitch, as he was trapped, glued to the Entrance Hall floor, forced to view the Great Hall through its enormous doorframe, as Fiendfyre licked up the walls.

The firestorm encased and demolished everything it touched in an unbearably painful, torrid heat. Ron and Hermione clung to each other in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by the chaotic inferno. They choked on the smoke as they called out of him. Harry could see they felt betrayed that he didn’t come closer, didn’t do anything to save them. He had no way to tell them that he was nailed to the floor, frozen against his will.

Voldemort’s sinister laughter rang in his ears, in his mind, and shook him through to his bones.

The Enchanted Ceiling collapsed.

Harry jolted, his hand clenched in a tight hold on the covers. His knees were drawn up in front of his chest where he was sat against the headboard. He shook his head a bit, and the room came back from that tunnel vision, back to the recognizable pale colors and blank design.

The sun had already retreated low, he noticed. A shallow bowl of stew had appeared for lunch, but he hadn’t eaten it. In fact, he hadn’t eaten all day.

Harry’s tailbone was asleep from how long he had sat and fallen into one nightmarish daydream after another. Not even the repetition of the cursive engraving helped, though it floated into his mind several times. Harry half-thought that that might have been a sign that he should say it to himself—to re-center and gain a little perspective on his bleak situation—that his brain was giving him an out to his negative cycle. Yet, he didn’t say it.

Yes, the dark part of Harry had clearly taken hold of him today.

He started to wonder if it wasn’t the Dark Lord who sent these terrible things into his mind, but surely the man had better things to do than imagine mind tricks for Harry to be tortured over.

Notwithstanding his history to do just that, Voldemort had recently acquired the Wizarding World, and probably dispatched the rest of the rebellion, so other matters were surely more prevalent to the Dark Lord.

Especially since he knew exactly where Harry was.

_The git._

Harry had even checked the spun glass bulb at the back of his mind, stood next to the bulb in his mind, and peered in to gain any insight that he was not just destined to be alone in this room forever.

The bulb only held smoky white fog. Whatever that meant. Harry had gotten so frustrated with his feelings of isolation that he imagined himself ripping the rod right out of the back of his mind and snapping the bond in two.

If it were only that easy to break away from being a Horcrux…to just decide that he, Harry, didn’t want to be one any longer…well, he would have a lot less problems if that were the case.

Harry had come to the conclusion several times—and lamented every occurrence—that it might be all of his own bad feelings that manifested such bad thoughts for his contemplation.

It was just one of those days.

The bowl popped out of existence, to be replaced by another similar bowl of broth and seasoned vegetables, probably—that was usually the dinner option—but Harry knew he would let it go soggy. He just wasn’t hungry.

Harry hadn’t felt this doomed since he feared he wouldn’t be allowed to return to Hogwarts in his youth—that he would be forced to stay with the Dursleys, that he would be ostracized to the outs of the Wizarding World…

Well, those worries had partially come to exist in his reality, hadn’t they?

Merlin, he was miserable.

Today he had thought a lot about his place in the world. He thought—despite the hopelessness and feelings of entrapment—about how it might be if he got out of here—this room, this house, maybe even this country—right now.

Where would he go? Would the state of the Wizarding World be in shambles? Did Ron and Hermione think him a coward, despite everything they had been through together, despite knowing him? Harry hoped that they were all right. Everything was so messed up.

After his failed escape the first night, he had little desire to attempt to get out again without a solid plan. He touched his chin, and felt the phantom pain of when his jaw had cracked against the kitchen tile.

Yes, that had been reckless. He wouldn’t blame himself for it any more than he already had. He would move forward from that mistake. The only way he could get out would be to out-Slytherin the Heir of Slytherin…Harry hadn’t found a way to do that, yet, but it would be wonderful if a thought would occur to him.

For now, though, he had again been left alone.

Four days since the last visit of Voldemort. Did anyone else, besides the Elves, even know he was here?

Harry wondered at the reason. If he was supposed to be lulled into a false sense of security, just to have the rug pulled out from underneath him, and slammed down, told his place, tortured…a chill ran down his spine and he fought the shudder that wanted to rip through him.

Maybe Voldemort just didn’t know what to do with him, now that he had him.

That was certainly conceivable.

The Dark Lord had spent all his wakeful hours obsessed over a teenaged boy—him—had planned for years to end said evasive boy, and then in quick succession found that he couldn’t go about his well-laid plans after all.

Harry wished he remembered the order of the stages of grief, to track Voldemort’s emotional progression through said stages.

Then again, this was Voldemort. The man didn’t align with regular people if he could avoid it. There had been a lot of anger, though. Anger Harry understood well enough; he had been subjected to it plenty, as Voldemort was well aware.

Harry wished he had had insight into Voldemort’s initial reaction, when he realized Harry’s deceit—that he was indeed an accidental Horcrux, and had willfully tried to get Voldemort to kill his own soul.

 _Clever joke, Fate_ , Harry thought bitterly _._

 _Oh, and Dumbledore and Snape_ , thanks, too, _for the preparation of that bombshell revelation._

Harry could only imagine what Voldemort had thought when he realized the truth in that mossy edge of the Forbidden Forest. If he had seen Snape’s memories in their entirety, or if he had only looked for the Prophecy and saw the truth of what Harry was, why he had been so willing to give his life…

 _Yes, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the absolute_ bane _of your existence and thwarter of your triumphs…has your_ soul _in him. So, what, Mr. Riddle, would you like to do with your merchandise now, since the rest has been so_ thoroughly obliterated?

It wasn’t funny, although Harry nodded to himself in amusement at that thought. Yes, Voldemort’s anger was something Harry very well understood in this matter.

Harry’s ears perked at a sound outside his door, like a creaking of a floorboard and a whisper. Harry had the distinct awkward feeling of being spied on. He slid off of the bed to stand by the window. He threw his best dirty glare at the door, and then stared stoically ahead. After a moment, he glanced at the keyhole and the thin gap under the door, but could not make anything out from this angle, so he pretended to hear nothing.

There was a shushing sound and then silence. Harry could feel his ears had raised so much at this new sound that he wanted to reach up and rub them so they would be less alert. He wanted to call out to whoever or whatever was at the door, but Harry wasn’t certain if that was a good idea, so he maintained his silence.

Harry breathed lightly to catch any sound, and a moment later he heard a floorboard lightly creak, another shush, and then nothing.

He waited, strained to hear anything more, but he seemed to be alone once more.

The sun had sunk into the golden hour, and Harry looked out the window again as the reds and golds illuminated a comely light over the room. The walls were bathed in yellows, which was a nice change from the room’s default look, which was as pale and featureless as…

Oh, Merlin.

Voldemort was here.

Nothing had shifted in the room. It was just a phantom brush of air against the back of his neck, an indication that tripped his hair-trigger survival instincts.

Harry tried not to look, he really did, but to ignore the Dark Lord deliberately was to be defiant, and why ruin a perfectly fine day.

Bitterly, Harry turned, a fake smile decided plastered to his face, and felt it immediately drop away in genuine surprise. He resisted the urge to jump across the room and snatch up the item Voldemort carried with him.

Draped over the Dark Lord’s left hand, as if he held a silver platter, shimmered Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. In the light of the sunset, it looked even more surreal. Harry never in all his daydreams could have imagined he would be allowed to see it again.

“Good evening, Harry…” said Voldemort casually, as if he hadn’t left Harry for four days to rot, as if he wasn’t holding Harry’s most prized possession after his beloved holly wand—although, his wand was broken at the moment, so…

“What is that?” burst out Harry, stupidly. Voldemort just looked down at the neatly folded Cloak hung elegantly over his arm.

“This is quite the magical artifact. I’m glad to have been able to take a closer look at it these past few days,” said Voldemort politely.

Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What have you done?”

Voldemort’s snakelike eyes widened comically in response.

“Done?” the Dark Lord asked innocently.

Harry was having none of it. He took a brave step towards the other man, to get a closer look at the familiar material.

Oh, how he longed to hold it, to be reunited with something familiar, which had always promised him safety against the evil that had lurked around.

For all that he longed to reach out and test the Cloak’s authenticity, Harry James Potter felt he was being played for a fool, and he would not be one.

Every move Tom Riddle made throughout his life, however stupid—like his chase after immortality, which incidentally shredded the very entity that anchored a person to life—had been a carefully crafted plot, executed to the letter.

There were no mistakes in Lord Voldemort’s world, only unfortunate results…for reference, the time when he had blown his body to nothing with a rebounded Killing Curse, after he had planned and searched to no end for the correct _baby_ who would grow up to be his downfall…

“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded instead, incensed by that last thought. He met Voldemort’s eye, which flickered with something akin to confusion or malice, before his minor expression cleared itself to blankness.

Harry got the gist. The Dark Lord had expected him to be _grateful_. Well, he wasn’t. Harry took a step back, rather than fall into whatever trap had been set for him.

“Harry…” Voldemort said softly. Harry’s eyes narrowed more.

“I’m wondering why you’re here with my dad’s Cloak,” clarified Harry boldly.

He suddenly didn’t really care who had been at his door, and he forgot that he had basically been stuck in his head for days. Lord Voldemort had appeared in his padded cell of a bedroom and he was filled with adrenaline and rage.

“I thought, though, perhaps incorrectly…that you might want it back,” Voldemort said softly, as he ever so slightly lifted the arm that sported the Cloak.

Harry’s jaw nearly hit the floor at that statement, but he contained it. Any instance where he could avoid his emotions being written all over his face was a win. The last thing he needed was for Voldemort to gain any more knowledge about how much the man was getting to him.

Voldemort tilted his head, and considered all of Harry with a sweep of his vividly red eyes.

Harry was extraordinarily on edge now, and felt very reckless. What he wouldn’t give to hold a wand right now. In the golden hues of the setting sun, everything looked stranger, and now it felt stranger, too.

The long arm that proffered the Invisibility Cloak lowered, and the Dark Lord leaned over and folded it twice on the foot on the bed, before he left it there and stood up straight. Harry purposefully attempted to keep his attention from the Cloak. It was clearly a distraction tactic.

Voldemort didn’t say anything more.

Harry couldn’t stand even the brief silence for long. Not after it had been his only companion for days.

“How are things?” Harry asked flippantly.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and Harry’s scar throbbed painfully and made his eyes water.

“Agh! What was that for!” yelled Harry. He rubbed his knuckles against his scar. His irritation surged, or it might have been coupled with Voldemort’s irritation. He didn’t much know or care; at the moment, he just wanted it to stop. Merlin’s sake, was asking about the _weather_ a crime now? The throb lessened.

“I will not tell you the state of the world Harry. It is not your concern,” Voldemort admonished mildly.

Harry’s irritation surged further into the territory of anger.

“What—you think I— _I was asking how you were!_ ” Harry spluttered in furious exasperation, before he realized what he had just said.

“Nevermind,” he grumbled as he felt his face flush and looked away.

Damn his mouth. He hadn’t even asked about the world at large, specifically because he knew Voldemort wouldn’t answer him. The bastard didn’t need to condescend to him about everything.

Voldemort had seemed minorly taken aback, but still suspicious.

 _Let him think the worst. I couldn’t care less._ Harry thought irritably, and waited for the pain in his scar to abate completely. He was left with a headache, and he circled his head around his neck and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in his head.

The bulb was suddenly less filled with ambiguous fog. Harry froze.

He spared a glance to Voldemort, who looked, in a word, depraved.

His slitted eyes were intensely locked on Harry’s, which made the younger wizard automatically lean a bit further away from the Dark Lord, despite the bed still situated partially between them.

“Er, so…” Merlin help him, Harry was not about to try to carry this conversation.

Voldemort’s predatory stare flitted over his face and throat several times, like a serpent eying up a good place to strike. Harry felt very exposed, somehow. It was like Voldemort saw under his physical skin, and stripped away the layers of what made him Harry. He shifted uncomfortably as the crimson gaze roved and raked over him.

Those blood-red eyes returned to his, and they were…unnerved.

Harry couldn’t understand that. If anything, he, Harry, should be the unnerved one—to be fair, he was, to a moderate degree—the way he was constantly under inspection.

Voldemort considered him for a moment, before he stepped around the edge of the bed and reached out. His hand ghosted over Harry’s cheek. Harry resisted the urge to slap it away. Voldemort hadn’t technically done anything, just invaded Harry’s personal space; the Dark Lord performed the act of a cat stalking a mouse very well, which served as a gigantic irritant to Harry. The pale hand removed its vague touch on Harry’s cheek.

“You haven’t eaten today.” Voldemort’s voice dropped, low and serious. Harry was painfully aware that he was mere inches from the taller Wizard’s chest. At the moment, he was doing his level best to burn holes in the other man’s robes with his glare, but in his closeness he noticed as the Dark Lord turned slightly to look pointedly at the bowl across the room.

It was, indeed, untouched. This was obviously not news to Voldemort, just a ridiculous point he was determined to make, but Harry, confused with the abrupt change of subject, raised his eyes quizzically to the lava-like ones that inspected him from above. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond.

“You will do so now,” stated Voldemort coldly. He left no room for any protestation as he turned back to face the young wizard before him. His vivid eyes, in such proximity, sent Harry into a wave of automatic shivers; goose bumps erupted, yet again, in the Dark Lord’s presence. This was to the man’s obvious enjoyment, as he leered, if possible, closer. Harry loathed that his own body was in any form reactive to the Darkest Wizard of modern times.

“I told you. I’m not hungry. I’ll eat whatever comes in the morning.” Harry spat a little harshly in his sudden defensiveness. He honestly felt glum and really wanted to be left alone, preferably with his Invisibility Cloak and his thoughts.

 _Were he to ever be so lucky_ , he thought sullenly.

Harry’s glumness was mixing tangibly with his anger in the small space of air between them. He had been in his head all day, and the days before that, and returned into that zoned-out state just as easily, despite his current awareness of the man before him.

He almost didn’t notice the long, single digit that sudden jabbed under his chin, until it forced his head up. The other long-fingered hand encircled the back of his neck and pressed against the hairs that now stood on end. Voldemort leaned down so their eyes were level. Close enough for his chilled breath to coast across Harry’s face as he spoke.

“Nothing will come in the morning if you do not eat now, I will ensure it,” Voldemort’s low tenor avowed. “I promise you, Harry,” he paused and gave a sharp leer, “you will never come to the conclusion that you are not hungry ever again.” The threat was delivered with dark solemnness.

Harry tried not to shudder as the words cascaded over his skin; it was an extraordinary distraction from the intimidation he was under.

Voldemort slid his hand off of Harry’s neck and released his hold, and the younger wizard returned completely to his mental awareness.

Harry glared at him, and made to go get to bowl from the other side of the room, but Voldemort—not breaking eye contact with Harry—lifted his arm and summoned the bowl to his hand. The Dark Lord held the dish of probably lukewarm—at best—soup in his long-fingered hand. Harry felt expected to do something.

He felt the annoyance in the back of his mind begin to tinge with anger, and after a drawn-out moment, Harry just reached out his hands to take the bowl from Voldemort, because it seemed the only thing to do.

Voldemort tsked as he lifted the bowl away, and Harry scowled.

“Manners, Harry,” Voldemort said as he straightened back to standing, amused. Harry bit his lip to keep from shouting.

 _Fine_ , he wanted to see manners? _Fine_.

“Please, may I please have the bowl, please? I am _very_ hungry, and thank you for your _graciousness_ of providing mostly hot water as my sole nutrition… _sir_.”

Harry laid it on thick. He struggled through tacking on ‘sir’ at the end, but it seemed necessary for the whole of it, manners and all. He took the chance to bat his eyelashes, or really just solidly blink a few times up at Lord Voldemort’s flat, pale face, as he waited for the surely violent reaction.

He truly was a reckless Gryffindor, at his worst. It came out almost as a reflexive defense mechanism. It was kind of something that Harry looked forward to, to feel something besides the bland and empty passage of time.

Voldemort sneered down at him, and looked as if he were either going to throw the bowl at Harry or through the window.

Instead, his emotions took a dramatic turn, instantly, from budding anger to…delight.

That couldn’t be good.

Harry swallowed his nervousness as the man towered above him. Voldemort took up the spoon handle, scooped up a spoonful of soup, and—he wouldn’t—

“Open.”

“No way,” scoffed Harry. He automatically leaned back and looked at the other man like he had grown a second snakelike head.

“ _Open,_ ” Voldemort repeated in harshly hissed Parseltongue.

Harry could tell he was making a face, and he tried to quash it. He considered, for the briefest of moments, to just do as was asked, to get it over with. Whatever demeaning situation he had created for himself when he had not appreciated bowls of broth—Harry nearly rolled his eyes.

The spoon rose between them, lifted in those pale fingers, and Voldemort was so wickedly amused that Harry could feel it solidly fill the bulb. Harry almost leaned in, just went along with it. Just get it over with, he told himself.

That would just be too easy, though; it felt too much like giving in.

“No way,” Harry repeated firmly, and tried to step back, but the wall was behind him. _Shit_.

Voldemort glowered down and rounded on him.

“Harry, either I feed you this, or you starve until you _beg_ for anything to come here ever again, to which I will not grant until you are truly hanging onto this world by a last feeble thread.”

Harry maintained a solid glare as he debated between his feelings of recklessness and his future desire to not add starvation to his list of misery.

“I’ll eat it if you let me hold my own damn spoon,” griped Harry, and nodded at the utensil.

Voldemort took a deep breath and let it out. It was like a dragon that held back its fire. Those emotions over the Horcrux bond did not relent. Voldemort was not outwardly showing as much, but the turmoil that bubbled and mounted from within was alarmingly violent.

“If you can prove your humility, first,” he said sharply, like he doubted Harry had the ability. Regrettably, it would be in the Dark Lord’s favor either way, which would always be Harry’s least favorite situation.

Harry pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. He stared at the spoon in the hand of his enemy. Then he just bit the bullet and leaned in; he opened his mouth slightly and stared at the spoon in burning humiliation and expectation.

Voldemort raised it to his lips and Harry, who felt extraordinarily awkward, leaned in further. He felt stupid and in his haste to get it over with, got the spoonful of soup all over his chin.

Harry quickly leaned back and wiped his chin vigorously, as if to rub off the experience of being fed by Voldemort. Merlin, he hated him.

Harry looked pointedly at the bowl, and refused to meet Voldemort’s eyes. They surely radiated as much heat as his embarrassed face, which was probably beet red. Harry stoically refused to dissect the sensations that warred in the bulb at the back of his mind.

“Fine,” Voldemort conceded, disappointment evident, and placed the bowl into Harry’s hands. Harry resisted a sigh of relief that the other man had stayed true to his word. He would rather starve than be belittled for longer at the hand of the other.  
“Thank you,” Harry said impatiently, although with slight sincerity in his relief. He spooned soup immediately into his mouth before Voldemort could change his mind.

“There. I’ve eaten,” stated Harry.

“All of it,” growled Voldemort; his scar gave an unpleasant twinge.

“What? Are you going to torture me, right after you were being so civil, asking me to join your side as a prop to whatever you decide to say about me? Giving me my Cloak back as what, some show of kindness?” Harry felt himself getting worked up, and there was nothing to stop it. He put the bowl on the windowsill.

“Okay. _Thank you_ so much for returning what is mine. Also, thank you for the accommodations. They are so mentally stimulating! I really appreciate it. I’m definitely not going mad within these walls, watching the sun go up and down, trapped in my own thoughts, without a scrap of news. Thank you!” Harry shouted, with hysterical exasperation. Harry ran a hand through his hair, but he wanted to tear it out. He gripped it at the roots, and tried to calm down.

Voldemort stood before him and observed, as Harry glared up at him with furious eyes and hands in his hair. His red eyes were impassive, but Harry could practically see his own crazed reflection in the blackness of the slitted pupils.

Oh, Merlin…The man was breaking him. Harry cursed several times internally.

He couldn’t believe he was acting this way in front of the other man, his most hated enemy.

_Shit. Shit. Shit!_

Harry hated that he was falling apart after days of isolation. He hated that this was his life. He hated himself. There were no more grounded thoughts that he could hold on to, that he could only slip into more despaired, cyclical ones.

“Harry,” came the voice above him. Harry shut his eyes tight, and gripped his hair harder. He pressed himself back into the wall and wanted to melt away. All the impossible magic in the world, and he couldn’t get a miracle to save him.

“Harry,” Voldemort said firmly.

No, no, no. Harry wanted to get away; he had to get away. He felt his magic bubble beneath the surface of his skin, and though it may have escaped before and done incredible things, now it boiled him from the inside.

“Calm down, Potter,” hissed the man above him.

Harry cracked his head against the wall. He saw a burst of blackness and stars, and blue lights twinkled on the edge of his vision.

He groaned as the sharp sensation spread from the back of his skull to the front. He hadn’t alleviated any of his emotion when he smacked his head into the wall; he had just added more pain.

He felt his lightning scar go cold as something pressed into his skin. He felt a calmness envelope him, and the sharp pain, the stars and lights on the periphery of his vision, ebbed away.

Voldemort had pressed one of his long fingers over the scar on Harry’s forehead. Harry breathed normally, and released the hold on his hair. He slid along the wall to the floor, and felt an emotional blankness cover him.

“There. Calm,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard a bit of smugness. Harry just tilted his neck and looked up at him.

For a long moment, in which the golden light faded to the dim blue of the onset of night, Harry stared up at Lord Voldemort. The man looked down at his curled form with his trademark blank expression. Like he hadn’t just brought Harry down from the panic he had drawn himself into.

It was power that Harry felt in the buzz of the bond. Voldemort felt extraordinarily powerful.

Whether it was the surreal tranquil feeling he was under or that he was not purely alone for another night, Harry felt strange.

It was strange that he wasn’t filled with hatred or darkness in this moment. It was strange because the Dark Lord towered above him, here, so close, and Harry wasn’t afraid or angry; he was oddly devoid.

Harry broke his eye contact and looked at the side of the mattress.

“Will I ever go out again?” Harry’s voice sounded empty to his own ears. Voldemort didn’t answer. Harry took a deep breath, and caught sight of his socked feet. He flexed his toes.

“Can I have shoes?”

No response, although he felt a twinge of irritation that Harry knew to be because he was asking for a favor. Surely, the Dark Lord thought he had been given enough. Had he not already been graced with clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in, food to eat?

Harry tried to ignore the wall of black robes a foot away from the right of him. He especially tried to ignore the Dark Lord as he reached up to the windowsill to pick up the bowl of soup again. Harry began to slowly eat to calm down, self-conscious though he was about every sound he made in the silent room. Only the clinks when the spoon tapped the side of the bowl were heard.

The twinge of irritation faded back to ambiguous fog. Harry continued to eat until the bowl was empty. He put in on the carpet next to him and watched for a moment until it blinked out of sight, as usual.

Harry raised his eyes to Voldemort again—Merlin, he was tall—and the returned stare in the now dim room was slightly amused.

“Why would you need shoes, Harry?” Voldemort asked, like it was the most unreasonable request in the world.

“To feel normal.” Harry felt weird to admit it, but he didn’t feel any reason to lie.

Maybe it was the strangeness again, that permeated everything this evening. Maybe it was the man he admitted it to.

“You aren’t normal, nor should you feel normal.” Voldemort practically spat in disgust.

A pause, before Voldemort further divulged, “You should feel magic through your feet, anyway. Muggle garments just get in the way.”

Harry disengaged with his brief civil tranquility. He found his fire, got to his feet and gestured around the room.

“You mean the magic you’re forcing to stay inside of me, blocked?” demanded Harry.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

“Mind your tone, Potter.”

Harry clenched his jaw. No, this wouldn’t go anywhere. If Voldemort really were here for idle chatter—which was undoubtedly not his real goal—then Harry would try to break the tension and draw the conversation away from his fitful hysteria that he had briefly sunk into. He reigned in his emotions.

He glanced at the spot of floor where the bowl had disappeared. It gave him an idea.

“Where do Vanished items go? Is there a way to get those things back?” Harry fished for something of interest that the Dark Lord might grab onto.

Evidently, he had hit on something Voldemort had a fascination with indeed, from the way the bulb glowed. The look in Voldemort’s eye told Harry that he was correct, as well.

Those scarlet eyes shone with a brilliance Harry had seen many times in Hermione’s eyes, usually before she energetically threw her hand in the air to answer a question in class.

“Magic is not an entity, Harry, it is _everything,_ in the most everlastingly true way.” Suddenly, it was like a light had flicked on, and the room was completely illuminated, as if the light came from the walls themselves. The dim dusk banished, Harry squinted and even turned to the window to check if it was still dark out, which of course it was. He turned back in time to see Voldemort stow the Elder Wand back up his sleeve.

“You said magic is everything…Do you mean everything in the Wizarding World or on earth in general?” Harry said slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Ah, Harry, is not the whole world under the rightful ownership of Wizards?” Voldemort shot him a look. “Wizards of the practiced craft of Magical ability are the chosen few who are to rule over all others. In all ways, we are their betters. Magical blood is important, Harry. It should be cradled and fostered. That is what this turn of tide has all been about.”

Voldemort had thrown in some political bollocks at the end, but Harry understood what he was getting at, at least in part.

“Er, okay.” Harry looked at one of the illuminated walls, past Voldemort’s shoulder. “So you’re saying then that human understanding, the mind—the theory of evolution, the amoeba…it all stems from—Well, then it must be magic, too. The stars even, not just our understanding of them, must have originated through magic.” As he said it, it suddenly made a lot of sense to him. Maybe the centaurs had a point about Divination in the stars, if magic was involved, not just their beliefs. Magic…the core of the universe. Harry was mind-blown.

“A magnificent theory, Harry,” drawled Voldemort, looking every bit the unimpressed spectator. The bond said otherwise; that Voldemort was intrigued by Harry’s interest in this topic. Harry bristled.

“I can feel that you actually think it’s an interesting theory,” sniped Harry, annoyed.

“Why live, just to die, then?” queried Voldemort aggressively. “If magic is life, and only available whilst we are alive, then why do mortals succumb to death?”

“Because…because it’s the natural way of the world! I don’t know! I didn’t say I had all of the answers,” snapped Harry.

“Neither can live while the other survives, have you forgotten?” said Voldemort quietly—a deadly, accusatory quiet fell, and Harry’s brain stopped buzzing with ideas. In a single moment, the discussion flipped to the touch on a topic so taboo between them…

Harry remembered a story from one of the times the Dursleys had infrequently gone to a church and brought him along. Single time though that had been, the story told that day had been particularly tragic. It was foretold to a King that a child was bound to grow up and overthrow him. So the King ordered that masses of innocent children be killed to protect his crowned place. The child escaped the murder that was to kill him, and he became a savior to the people in that region later on. It would seem that Fate always got Her way with these things…

It would also seem that the egotistical did not bother to learn from history, Lord Voldemort included.

“You know,” Harry began, and he probably should have been more unnerved by how much quiet venom was in his voice. “Rumors, or ramblings of half-heard prophesies, in our case, don’t hold any real meaning. Not unless someone acts on the words, puts actual action behind the meaningless and forces it to be true.” Harry felt the magic begin to bubble in his veins again, heating him intensely from the inside. Harry felt himself almost slip below the line of hysteria. “Divination 101,” he finished, the blame placed squarely where it belonged.

“Watch your tongue, Harry, lest I decide you can suffice with _nonverbal_ spellwork for the rest of time,” hissed Voldemort.

Harry fumed for a moment, before his face cleared and the boil of his trapped magic cooled a bit.

He had wondered a few times after his fifth year…would Voldemort have regretted his actions, cursed his direction, if he had known the whole of it?

Harry wanted to scoff. No, he didn’t think that Voldemort would much consider his mistakes enough _his own_ fault to experience something as mollifying as regret.

That was too close to remorse.

Voldemort would not be changed…he was who he had always been. Independent, self-serving, brilliant, cruel, and callously unaffected by anyone he didn’t want to draw in for the duration of whatever personal gain he could attain from their alignment with him.

The only thing that had changed was that the Dark Lord now knew more information, which would only serve to creatively ruin Harry’s reputation in more accurate ways. All that was missing outside of the box it came in was the right spin to have everyone in the Wizarding World up in arms against the Chosen One.

Really though, that said little, if anything, new. The opinion of the Wizarding World had flip-flopped in its depiction of him multiple times over the years. Harry was only a touch bitter about this.

“You know what it says,” said Harry as he broke out of his furious thoughts once more.

He looked expectantly at Voldemort. They hadn’t yet talked about the Prophecy and what it meant. Harry had not ever expected to, but now the opportunity was here.

“I do,” said Voldemort in a low voice. He did not elaborate.

Harry’s impatience built, and his stir-crazy feelings of isolation crept in on him; patience had never been his strong suit, even when he had had better reasons to obtain it. He folded his arms across his chest, cocked an eyebrow and asked,

“Well?”

Voldemort blinked.

Harry was not buying the Dark Lord playing dumb, and felt his own intelligence being insulted by the lack of response on the older wizard’s part.

“No—I don’t know—newfound theories? Reasons why you would come here with my dad’s Cloak?” pressed Harry anxiously, and gestured to the end of the bed. The Dark Lord’s eyes followed the gesture.

Voldemort slowly moved back to the foot of the bed and pretended to study the cloth there. He picked a nonexistent piece of lint from the top, before he met Harry’s anticipant gaze with a smooth, carefully confused look.

“Not really,” he said smoothly.

“Really—” Harry let out a frustrated puff of air, and tried to find the words that would erase the fact that he wanted something from this interaction.

Harry wanted some form of acknowledgement from Voldemort, any thoughts whatsoever on the events that led to that fateful October night in Godric’s Hollow. Even opinions—not even necessarily changed opinions, either, as Harry would never be so ignorantly optimistic—would have been welcomed.

He had hoped to hear some new truth about the Prophecy that had linked Harry Potter to Lord Voldemort forever. Not through a game of Fate and Divination, but by the mortal quotient of choice. Lord Voldemort’s choice had altered Harry’s future, every aspect of it.

Harry wanted Voldemort to acknowledge this fact, and he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. That was nothing new or unexpected, but Harry still had a need for it.

Voldemort only really considered his life, after all.

For all the Dark Lord cared, the prophecy was _his_ , a claim, a part of his own story. Harry had just been in the way.

So, yeah, what else was new? What did anyone care what happened to Harry? He was just a detail in someone else’s timeline—it just so happened that that timeline belonged to a sadistic murderer. The murderer of his parents _,_ who walked around and treated Harry as though he didn’t exist ever since he had lost out on his long-term goal of destroying him, and realized an adjustment was in order.

Harry was just, as of yet, unaware of what that adjustment was in a permanent sense. It didn’t look as though the Dark Lord was going to shed any light on that topic, either.

“Well that—that’s a relief, because, er, I really thought you would _glean_ something from going on a frenzy through my head,” said Harry pointedly, trying not to sound too dejected by his thoughts.

Voldemort stood there, his eyes cold and staring, and Harry saw his hairless brow crease in a flicker of some unnamed emotion, over too quickly to catch the meaning of through the bond.

Harry’s eyes were drawn to the Cloak again, but snapped away when Voldemort made to step around the bed. Harry stared at him hard, feeling cornered by the window, with no dignified way to put space between them—he could roll over the bed to get away to the bathroom, but that immediately seemed like the kind of act that would get him mocked. Harry rocked back on his heels, uncommitted to his retreat.

“Harry…” a mock-sincere tone cradled his name. “Have you felt I have not given you enough attention lately? Are you, perhaps…feeling lonely?”

Voldemort grinned evilly at this. Harry just glared at him in what he hoped was as stony as he wanted it to be.

He looked again at the darkened window just to see his own reflection stare back at him in the glass.

“I don’t want to just survive, like you,” whispered Harry, not willing to trust his full voice at the moment. “I want to live.”

He whipped around, suddenly feeling less melancholy.

“So, excuse me if part of that is thinking and applying my mind to my ‘stupid’ theories!”

Voldemort scoffed, and Harry felt his face grow hot. Whether from anger or if he wondered if Voldemort actually thought he was unintelligent, when he had given a perfectly well reasoned theory of the universe. For only being alone for thirteen days, he was starting to lose it. Half of a month, wasted.

He idly thought what Hermione would think of his theory. Well, if it was a new concept, as most theories were, she would probably say it didn’t exist in a book and therefore wasn’t worth committing as fact. Harry wondered semi-fondly what her counter theories were. Harry eyed the Dark Lord, as he moved to touch the bedspread, one of the things that grounded him. Those predatory eyes followed him.

“Squibs?” asked Voldemort, out of nowhere. “Where do they come from, then, in your explanation that magic is infused with even every day Muggle ridiculousness?”

“Er—well…” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “They exist just like us—”

“As inferiors, but go on,” interrupted Voldemort.

“That’s not what I’m saying, and I would! If you would stop asking questions and then interrupting—”

“Simply correcting, Harry,” said Voldemort. Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting.

After a minute of those red eyes trained on him, stewing in his impatience, Harry snapped, “Can I continue?”

“You can surely try,” answered Voldemort drily. Harry wanted to throttle him.

Instead, he averted his eyes to bed. As his index finger idly traced patterns on the top of the bedspread, he chewed his lower lip and tried to find a good explanation of why two Magical parents could have a non-Magical child.

“Squibs just have a weaker magical core?” offered Harry.

“Now, Harry, did you not just argue they weren’t inferiors?” Voldemort asked shrewdly. “Is not calling them weaker an assessment of their station?”

“No! They aren’t, they just have the potential to grow, otherwise magic wouldn’t exist in them at all, to name them as Squibs.”

“Then how are they any different than Muggles?” pressed Voldemort, fire alight in his eyes.  
“They’re allowed to know about the Magical community, for one,” grumbled Harry.

“Certainly, and _should_ they know of our world, Harry, if they are not going to contribute as Wizards and Witches do?” Voldemort had turned the conversation and Harry was uncomfortably destabilized in his argument.

“That’s not fair,” Harry protested, knowing very well it was moot to bring fairness into the conversation, “considering there are plenty of Wizards and Witches who don’t contribute as it is.” Harry thought of Lucius Malfoy. “They commit crimes and they rest on their Pureblood laurels, not working in the interest of the Magical community, right? So what does blood matter? Shouldn’t you judge based on contribution, if that’s your basis for worth?” Harry felt good about his argument, until he realized that Mr. Malfoy had weaseled his way into every influential crevice of the Ministry. He was contributing a lot, but for selfish reasons. Harry didn’t think mentioning a morality scale would go far with current company.

Harry was thinking of all those that he, Ron, and Hermione had seen being taken in for processing on the basis of ‘stolen magic,’ were that even able to be done. Surely, the Pure-blood families weren’t subjected to such methods.

“I think you may be onto something, Harry,” purred Voldemort, and Harry swallowed. He had not really paid attention to what he had just said, it had just kind of come out. He had wanted to throw Voldemort off of his beliefs, and see the wrongness of them. He wasn’t certain what Voldemort had picked out of his speech that was important, and he certainly doubted that he would be “on to something” if it disagreed with the Dark Lord’s philosophies.

“Er, what?” Harry almost winced at his ineloquence, but began to worry that Voldemort may have latched onto a meaning he didn’t mean to make.

“How about the _werewolves_ , then Harry?” Voldemort’s eyes glinted in the brightness of the room and Harry felt his stomach sink to his feet.

“What?” he said hollowly. His mind was suddenly full of Lupin’s tired and worn face. Lupin had been a kind man who had gone through so much strife throughout his life. He had been a great wizard. Voldemort was surely capitalizing on Harry’s affection for Lupin to draw him into a horrible debate.

“They are savage, even those who are wizards,” Voldemort started in. “They roam in packs and travel amongst all populations, Magical and Muggle alike, harvesting children to bring into their fray. Tell me…Harry…are they fit to contribute?” The Dark Lord leered at him.

Harry felt very unconfident on giving his opinion on who should contribute. He didn’t want to be blamed for something horrible that could later be written into law by Voldemort and ‘endorsed’ by Harry because of something he had thoughtlessly said. It sounded like exactly the kind of thing Voldemort would do. He didn’t know if that was possible, but what other reason could Voldemort have had to bring up werewolves, of all things.

“Well, maybe on a case-by-case basis, then?” he said uncertainly.

Voldemort let out a laugh, and it sounded genuine, like he was surprised at Harry’s ignorance. Harry, in turn, felt even more dumb and out of his depth.

He wasn’t a politician! He hadn’t even finished his education at Hogwarts. What did the other man expect him to say?

“Harry, I must introduce you to the formulation of legislation someday… You are suggesting that we vet all Wizards and Witches in the Magical community on an _individual_ basis? With what resources?” Voldemort’s red eyes looked on him with cruel amusement. His gaze mocked Harry, which vexed him to no end.

Why did he think to engage with the Dark Lord in conversation, again? Perhaps isolation was preferable.  
“You seemed to have enough resources to take in all the Muggleborns and Half-bloods and put them to trial. Pretty much anyone who wasn’t a known Pure-blood was slated to be thrown into Azkaban for magic-stealing, isn’t that right?” said Harry hotly.

“I feel you’ve rather shown your hand, Harry,” countered Voldemort as he sneered at him. “So you would like the new regime to meet with every single Magical person and interview them on their worth. I surely don’t see that backfiring on them in any way.“ Voldemort stated sinisterly. He had a keen ability to make Harry feel stupid without trying very hard. “Allow me to clarify, Harry, that that would give the Ministry more subjective determination over their lives.”

“I don’t have any say in this. You aren’t telling me anything,” Harry objected.  
“You’re deflecting. True, you are working answers from no information, quite correct.” The Dark Lord’s face now had a shadow that lurked over his flat features, even with all the brightness in the space. “Yet, you were so fond of your opinion only a moment ago. Only when I have asked you to give reasons for such feeble ideas do you fall short.”

“That’s not fair, you’re deliberately keeping me in the dark!” protested Harry.

“Ah, fairness. It is such a pitiful _want_ of yours,” mocked Voldemort. “No, Harry, the world does not seem to be fair, does it? So why should we grant such grace of kindness to those who don’t deserve it? You demand that everyone be treated the same, but you’re falling back to your frankly opinionated standing of determining right from wrong,” pushed Voldemort, his eyes as bright as Fiendfyre.

“That’s not—”

“Very well, Harry,” interrupted Voldemort. “Let us continue down this path of thought. If we judge all members of current Wizarding society on a case-by-case basis, what are the factors that allow integration into our society? If not through Magical parentage, tracked by blood…then perhaps through character references. Is that what you are suggesting?” Voldemort paused, and in the new stillness of the room, Harry felt the expectation to respond, only he didn’t have anything ready. Voldemort had stripped down every argument he had started to form as it had come up.

“Er, well, I—” Harry’s voice cracked out, as he fished for something to say. His mind reeled and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Dear Teddy Lupin won’t stand a chance in the world you’re describing, Harry. Not with corrupt parentage like that,” came the ominous whisper, so softly it might have been mistaken whom it came from.

Harry’s blood ran cold. He could actually feel the blood that had welled to his face in anger drain swiftly. He suddenly felt very ill. Harry flicked his eyes back to Voldemort’s and the crimson pools were trained carefully on his reaction. Harry dropped his hand down from his neck.

“In fact, Harry Potter, have you given consideration as to _why_ the current Ministry resources are targeting people by blood?”

The Dark Lord wasn’t really waiting for an answer, though, and as he stepped forward, the shadows that surrounded him grew, and slipped off of him in waves. Harry swallowed.

“It is an objective method, one of the only ones we have. It may have subjective ideology behind it, but it is more objective than your way, Potter. I believe you to be severely misinformed about the world in which you live and the Wizarding World at large.”

Voldemort’s countenance was imposing and increased with every word until he stood before Harry, yet again. Harry felt small, though his fury was still as strong as ever. He hated that.

The room was too bright around him in contrast to the dark terror that loomed before him.

Harry lowered his head and stared at his socks so he didn’t have to stare at the Dark Lord before him anymore. Harry didn’t know much more than what he was told and had seen in the Wizarding World, that much was true, but his role had never been knowledge, it had been action and to handle life-threatening events as they came up. It was to perform damage control when things fell out of sorts.

It wasn’t that he was unintelligent; he just didn’t thrive in books and theory as well as a head-on practical approach. Voldemort was just trying to get under his skin, and he had succeeded somewhat, too. It made Harry all the angrier for it.

That anger was his most sure guide in matters like these. Most likely Bellatrix was on a warpath after Lupin’s son, her great-nephew. Harry almost snarled in his outrage.

Surely she was out to exterminate the only other descendent of the Marauders, to have her family tree cleansed in the name of blood purity. Harry hated her, more than anyone. More than Lord Voldemort, just inches in front of him.

Just the idea that Bellatrix still walked the earth made his blood boil. She didn’t pretend to have reasons for hurting people, like Voldemort did; she just _hurt_ people. Harry didn’t understand her and he didn’t want to. He just wanted her dead.

Harry could only hope that by some miracle Teddy remained safe and far away from the mad rule that had surely unfurled over the last two weeks he had been amiss. He could only imagine the terrors that had occurred in the wake of the Order’s crushed rebellion—if that truly was what had happened in his absence.

He didn’t exactly trust the word of Tom Riddle.

“I’ll leave you to your ruminations, Harry,” said Voldemort, and Harry, now about to burst with fury and indignation turned to see the room was empty.

That did it. Harry spun and slammed his fist into the wall by the window and immediately a large shockwave electrocuted him and knocked him clean onto the floor. The strange illumination of the room flickered and plunged into darkness.

Harry shouted a string of curse words to the empty room. He was alone again.

He stared up through the window from where he lay on the carpet. The stars flickered in between wispy clouds, and the half-formed moon shone. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the carpet beneath the windowsill, and just stared at the celestial objects above.

He blamed Fate for many things, true, but Harry didn’t hold any contempt for the universe. The universe just existed, and it gave him a chance; it had to.

Harry decided right then and there, just what would be done; he would scheme, and he would plan. He would stop dreaming and falling into his own head. He would have to channel his inner Slytherin or Ravenclaw or Hermione—he would have to—because there had to be a way out of this room.

There had to be a way out.

He had to get back to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. So help him, he would make sure that Teddy Lupin stayed out of the path of those sadistic lunatics on Lord Voldemort’s side. He owed it to Lupin and Tonks.

Harry pulled himself to his feet yet again, and felt shaky and sore from getting blasted by the wards.

He looked at the end of the bed, where his Invisibility Cloak still lay folded. It looked silvery, like moonlight reflected on ocean waves, even in the dark. He walked around the side of the bed and stared down at its innocent shimmer.

Harry realized that it was kind of a prank on him that Voldemort had returned his Invisibility Cloak to him. It was more of a statement to how trapped Harry was, a perpetual reminder that Harry couldn’t hide from the Dark Lord, even with his Cloak.

Lord Voldemort did love to be dramatic…

It was a comfort, though, and it would surely be an asset. It was a Hallow, after all, and it was his. Harry ran his fingers lightly over the familiar cloth, and he slipped it over himself. He never tired of being invisible; it sparked the same joy it did years ago when he first received it on Christmas Day.

Harry had made good on the advice from Dumbledore and had used his Cloak well over the years.

He slid it off of his head, and he fingered the material, just letting it slide over his hands. He lifted it up to his face and inhaled. It wasn’t weird, it was just…curiosity.

Voldemort’s scent did linger slightly on the fabric, and it was a mix of something entirely new, but not distinct.

It didn’t really remind Harry of anything. It was like trying to define the taste of water or the smell of clean air. It wasn’t refreshing as either of those, though, just a thick scent that unreasonably calmed him. Harry placed it aside and felt odd.

It wasn’t weird, he eventually convinced himself. It was just curiosity; it was allowed.

He looked at the fabric next to him as he lay down on top of the covers, still in amazement that it was here with him. He peered out the window at the starry sky, the celestial pinpricks of light as small as he felt. One hand dragged the Cloak to his chest and gripped it like the safety blanket it was.

Harry fell asleep in short order, half-bathed in moonlight and shadow, and for once it was a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment, if you'd like to. I love them all and they have been highly motivational.  
> Otherwise, much love, and see you soon for the next chapter.


	7. Get Your Bloody Act Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and a suppressed memory, if it is a memory at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slinks in, drops chapter, slinks out.  
> Disclaimer: borrowing Rowling's characters  
> Notes: Thank you for your patience.  
> As always, thank you for reading.  
> Enjoy the chapter!

Harry awoke the next morning feeling refreshed.

Or at least, he felt decidedly less miserable than most mornings.

He sat up and adjusted his crooked glasses. He really needed to stop sleeping in them or the frames would be bent permanently.

In the early glow of sunshine, he stretched his arms up. His shoulder cracked and loosened up pleasantly. As he dropped his hands back down, his right hand landed on the Invisibility Cloak that lay next to him on the bed, and he smiled slightly as he drew his hand over the material.

Harry raised his eyes to the window. A thick fog, pale and grey, obscured his view of the forest and hills beyond; only the white outline of sunlight trickled through the foggy veil.

As usual, he slid out of bed and went to shower. He pulled off his jeans and t-shirt and, struck with an idea, turned the water valve carefully. He took a deep breath and stepped under the icy cold spray.

The Dursleys used to all shower before him so there was no hot water left by the time Dudley had gotten out. Harry had always had the suspicion that his cousin let the hot water run while he finished getting ready in the bathroom, because Dudley always left the bathroom fully dressed barely moments after the water turned off.

That cold was something not easily forgotten, but that same bitter cold that filled him with such dejectedness in his youth now did its work and obliterated his thoughts.

He could think of nothing but the frigid water that pelted his skin. He steeled himself with gritted teeth through the quick wash of his body and hair.

Harry decided then that maybe he wouldn’t make cold showers a habit. It brought up more bad feelings than benefits.

It wasn’t altogether a mistake. Exactly as Harry had hoped, the uncomfortable cold had woken him up and made him feel one with his body.

He also wasted no time standing in the bothersome water longer than necessary, as he usually would. Most days he contemplated what it would take to burn his guilt away. The boiling temperatures were never as effective as he would like.

Today he needed all the time and focus he could get, though.

Shower done, he slammed the valve off. Harry sighed into the warmth of the towel as he wrapped it around his shoulders and held himself for a moment.

Harry suspected that Voldemort would most likely not be around during daylight hours. After all, the Dark Lord had just visited yesterday, and he was in the middle of his political renaissance.

Harry resisted the furious feelings that threatened to bubble over at the thought of the pretentious bastard.

Harry should be there, fighting it all.

He grit his teeth, half in response to the lingering cold and half to calm him. That was what today was all about—finding a way out of this mess he had gotten himself into.

He dragged the towel across his chest and down his legs and caught most of the dripping rivulets of water before they hit the tile of the bathroom floor. He moved quickly, and the cold on his skin faded the more he moved. He brought the towel around his hips, and moved to brush his teeth.

Leaned over the sink, Harry kept his eyes carefully trained on the drain as water rushed and spun down into the pipes.

It wasn’t that the water was mesmeric to Harry, or that the shallow sink basin was of any fascination, or that he was zoned out in the process of the hygienic chore. He just avoided his reflection as often as possible. Despite the ability to stay clean and relatively healthy in his bland room—as much as a static, repetitive routine allowed—Harry knew captivity had not been kind to his appearance.

Impossibly, Harry had lost more weight off of his already slight frame, but his slow starvation worried him far less than other aspects. The mental toll of his isolation and near-constant worries had commuted to a physical haunted expression. One that he had seen the last time he chanced a look in the bathroom mirror.

Though the changes to his reflection had startled him, the troubled aspects were so familiar that Harry had had no difficulty placing where they came from.

They reminded him of all he had to be guilty for.

He recognized the blame he carried with him, of course, and he knew the tangible testament of despair evidenced in his eyes was from emotions fostered and ingrained deep in his heart. His green eyes had shown such gloom—something so constant it had etched itself onto his face.

It was blame that Harry considered to be rightfully his, and to see it so fully on display had brought guilt and perspective back to the center of his focus.

A shower was not a blessing. A bed was not a kindness. These accommodations only served to furnish his shame.

He was alive by the same will that had made others dead—Voldemort’s will. The Dark Lord was the only one who truly pulled the strings of the Wizarding World over the course of the last year. Despite everyone’s effort to the contrary, he remained in power as a sadistic puppeteer.

_Lovely_.

Harry felt himself scowl around his toothbrush.

Of course, Harry felt he was more expendable than the others who had given their lives, and he would have gladly given his. Especially if it had meant others lived.

After all, that was what he had gone to the damn Forbidden Forest to do.

Angrily, he spat into the basin, and the water swirled the white froth and foam down the drain. He shut off the faucet and stared at the sink until the last deep gurgle ceased in the pipes.

It was his penance to face his own reflection. It was a brief self-inflicted reminder that any comfort he received was paid for by another’s life. It was his penance to look himself in the eyes and know the cost of being alive.

Harry drew himself up and looked in the mirror.

A somewhat healthy, although thin, face stared back at him.

He did not see the aggrieved and hollow eyes that bore tremendous pain, as he had before.

One night of decent sleep and the bags beneath his eyes looked less like bruises and more like light shadows. He looked away.

Physically, he felt fine. That was all, though. Just fine.

The deep misery was not as prevalent at the moment, kept at bay by a dreamless night, but it prowled on the outskirts of his mind, ready to take over at the first sign of weakness.

Sometimes, Harry knew, that misery had a knack for just letting itself in.

For years Harry had kept those feelings pushed aside. Purpose had allowed him that. Friends, and Quidditch, and homework, and danger had given him the perfect distraction—the perfect outlet.

It had been the summers and the Dursleys’ crude neglect that had drawn him back into his shell in the Muggle world those first two years. When he knew that there was another, better world he had left behind. One he belonged in.

Those had been the early years of Hogwarts, where trouble followed, but he had more freedom than his childhood self had dared to imagine. He had felt so restricted every time he returned to the place he grew up in.

That had faded after his fourth year. Cedric had been murdered and he cared less and less for the Dursleys, those he had so feared in his childhood for the power they held over his person.

After Voldemort’s return, nothing else scared him as much as the monster that crept along in his dreams.

He guessed that was the meaning of perspective, of experience.

The nightmares of what he had seen, and the lack of anyone who cared enough to help him talk about it, had drawn him inward, and his emotional wounds festered into an ugly vulnerability. Harry felt foolish for even thinking it at the time, but he really wanted someone to ask if he was okay, to have that long-needed conversation.

He would have lied, but at least someone else would have acknowledged his pain. He felt disgusted to think that he wanted that. It felt dirty, but sometimes he had craved pity.

It would be a normal person’s hell, but Harry handled it. He had to. Even if the rest of the world—the Prophet, the student body, the Death Eaters—were all against him, he had to go on.

It was all so temporary.

Dumbledore had tried; Ron and Hermione had tried; Ginny had tried. Harry had felt so misunderstood, so bad about feeling bad. There were others suffering much more deeply. Harry had lost and lost and lost—his parents, Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Tonks, Fred—but he persevered.

Maybe it was his practiced survivalist nature that just simply would not let him die.

No, that had been Voldemort’s decision…again.

Harry placed his toothbrush down on the counter and stared down at his hands that supported him on the sink’s edge.

The scars scrawled across the back of his left hand stood out white. He balled his hand in a fist, making the uneven lines of his own crass penmanship stand out more.

_I must not tell lies._

Well, he was living a brilliant lie right now, he thought fiercely.

The world thought him dead, of that he was certain. He was either seen as a hero or as a coward; those were always the only two options available to the unimaginative minds of the public.

Harry could hazard a guess at which was being publicized at the moment.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as a flurry of frustration ripped through him, intermingled with the indignation that he had been trapped while the world turned on.

Today was the day he would find a way to change that, though. He had already decided.

Change the things that could not be accepted, right?

He faced off with his reflection again, and his green eyes were determined now, like solid emeralds, undaunted by the seemingly impossible task of escape.

Well, impossible had never been an issue where there had been a will and some help.

His eyes trailed to his bare chest.

There was another reason Harry avoided his reflection.

Gone though Slytherin’s Locket was, destroyed beyond Magical repair, the trace of its existence remained in the oval imprinted on his sternum.

The mark was almost as jarring to look at as his lightning scar, and associated with the same amount of happy memories.

On the night he and Hermione had visited Godric’s Hollow last winter, in the triumphant frenzy of Harry’s capture, Nagini’s coils had pressed the Locket into him. Whether because of the proximate connective energy between the three Horcruxes, or because of an innate sensed danger, the Locket had brutally latched to Harry and left an intense burn.

After Hermione had freed him and Apparated them out, narrowly avoiding Voldemort’s arrival, she had had to sever the Horcrux from where it had melded to his skin. Another mark added to his collection.

He frowned, awash in abrupt bitterness.

All his life, Harry had not found a way to rid himself of his scars.

He used to wish for it with all his heart. Like maybe people wouldn’t call him a freak, if he could get rid of his disfigurement. That was what he wished for most nights as he lay in the cupboard under the stairs.

He had wanted to be more normal. Fewer problems followed if you pretended to be normal. Or that was what he had thought.

That was not life, though. Harry was meant to have his trials and worst moments on display for the world to see.

Ease, friendliness, and fairness were not meant to exist in the space of his youth. It was the wrong place, wrong time, and wrong house on Privet Drive that he belonged to, and he had lived his largest lie when he had told himself that he wasn’t strong enough to escape.

Harry tore his eyes away from the wretched mark on his chest.

At the very least, it was a small mercy that his the Locket burn was easily hidden in his day-to-day life. As only Hermione knew of its existence, the Locket scar was the only one of his significant marks that was semi-private.

As Harry marched into the bedroom, he wished Hermione would channel herself to him today. Hermione, who had unfailingly helped him through so much over the years, had saved him on several occasions this past year alone, sometimes just by her presence and quick thinking.

As he pulled out his folded black t-shirt and jeans for the day, his eye caught on something that almost blended with the ebony wood of the wardrobe.

He blinked in surprise.

Shoes were tucked off to the side, hidden in the shadows under the hung robe. Harry picked one shoe up. It was plain, black canvas, and rubber-soled.

Exceedingly Muggle.

It took Harry a few moments of bewilderment to recover.

His inane request had been surprisingly granted, yet again.

Harry tried not to be too confused by the implication, if there was one to be found.

Rather, he sat down on the carpet and pulled on the shoes.

After weeks without, his feet adjusted to the strangeness of solid footwear, and he flexed his toes a little. He decided not to tie the shoe around his still slightly swollen ankle.

Harry brushed his hand fondly over the tops of the shoes, and wiggled his toes within their new confined space. He sat back, propped with his hands behind him, and stretched his legs out in front of the wardrobe.

This was a good thing, he thought. He would need shoes for his escape attempt. Whenever he figured out how to get through the wards, he would probably make a beeline right for the forest that surrounded the property.

With that in mind, whenever he figured out how to get through the wards, he needed contingency plans.

Whenever he figured out how to get through the wards.

Harry made a face at the wall, and forced back the stressful worries as they mounted. His fingers flexed into the carpet.

He sincerely wished Hermione and Ron were with him. Any of Harry’s plans—nailed-down details or not—were usually abandoned the moment they came into play, and this was Lord Voldemort he sought to outmaneuver.

As much as he would love to mock the robes off of the Dark Lord, Harry had to grudgingly admit that he was an extremely skilled wizard. Voldemort had only feared Dumbledore in both strategy and skill, but Dumbledore had by no means been unchallenged by the Dark Lord.

Harry was completely alone this time. No Portkey to whisk him away; no love magic to burn through his opponent; no Ron or Hermione to talk over his problems and research solutions; no Dumbledore, or Snape, or Order member was coming to help rescue him out of this dismal place.

The less chances he took at the outset, and the more time he spent on plans, the better.

Harry repressed a shudder at the thought of what would happen if he were caught...

He almost immediately shook his head free of such negativity. It would not do to have his plans fall to failure before they had even been created.

Chastened by that thought, and strengthened with a resolve to attempt more positivity, insincere though it would probably feel, Harry set his focus.

Minutes passed, and Harry continued to stare vacantly at the wall. He tried to prevent his mind from wandering.

Voldemort had said he had warded the room to Harry, blocked his magic with something in the wards.

Keyed to Harry…

He lay back, spread out on the carpet in front of the wardrobe so he could stare at the ceiling.

Minutes passed, and no ideas came.

Harry felt the carpet against his skin and fidgeted. He squinted at the ceiling.

Well, logic—or Harry’s muddled version of it—said that if he started to plan the parts before and after the escape, the _how_ would surely follow...hopefully.

Harry groaned at that thought. He needed his friends, any ideas at all.

He was aware he was reckless, but also very aware of the dangers escape posed.

Interactions with Voldemort recently had been relatively non-negative, sans the awkward encounter when he had been humiliatingly fed—Harry grimaced at the thought. Harry didn’t know what had brought that change on, but it was not his intention to deliberately incur wrath from the older wizard until he was out of here.

The last thing Harry wanted was more restrictions or surveillance placed on him—it was a setback that he absolutely could not afford.

His mind continued to ignore his willingness to focus, as it continually flipped between the beginning of a useful idea and thoughts of what could go wrong.

He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head as if to reset the whole of it.

Harry lay there and reviewed and thought over anything and everything he knew about wards, which was not much more than Hermione had told him.

Hermione had never let him down. It would have to be enough.

Harry knew person-specific wards needed something powerful attached to the person to be created.

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine at that.

He certainly had an awful lot in common with Voldemort.

Harry did not know if being the bane of someone’s existence counted as a commonality, but if so, he was undoubtedly screwed if that was somehow tied into the wards of his room. Some of the most powerful spells Harry knew of were emotionally charged magic, from the Cruciatus to the Patronus.

Aside from the obvious connection of the Horcrux, they shared a predestined Fate, they were both orphans—although for different reasons, Harry thought drily—and they shared blood.

Harry was especially spiteful of the last bit, as he absentmindedly rubbed his arm where Wormtail had sliced it open.

_Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken_ , _was it?_ Harry thought venomously, and glared at nothing.

He still hated Wormtail, but now that the traitor was dead, there was dullness to the bite, almost like it wasn’t worth the energy to be angry over a pathetic sack like him.

Harry looked down at his hand crossed over his body, gripped on the phantom sensation where the ritual knife had pierced him.

That night had been powerful, for more than just the magic performed that brought Lord Voldemort to his current corporeal form.

Death’s shroud had consumed that night, and though Harry had been shocked and gagged into painful silence for the majority of it, in the end it was Death that he had feared the least.

It was the first time that Harry had realized that Death took many forms, and for all that it took, it also gave.

Harry had not thought that possible, as Death was a comprehension of experience. All he had experienced was the negative side effects of the loss of his parents and all the misfortune that that had brought to his life.

Their deaths, though, had brought renewed freedom to the Wizarding World in the destruction of Voldemort that same Halloween night.

Cedric was killed in a flash of terror, one that Harry relived near-habitually, but that had not been Death; that had been a hateful act of intended violence. Harry felt his piece of responsibility in Cedric’s murder—that he had been brought to the Graveyard in the first place—but he was not the only person at fault.

That night was a series of events that would haunt Harry his whole life long, but it was not Death that was to be feared. It was the mortals who sought more.

Despite everything that had terrorized him, that night brought the first realization that his parents were watching over him. When he heard their voices speaking to him for the first time—not out of a memory, not screams and pleas in Harry’s defense—he knew that they had never left.

Harry had stared so long at the white ceiling he was beginning to see small shapes float across his vision. He blinked a few times to clear them away, and a tear slipped out the corner of his eye and rolled down into the shell of his ear. He reached up and brushed it away, and sniffed as he sat up.

Harry was suddenly filled with a rush of energy.

Ritualistic blood magic was powerful, protective, and could be keyed to Harry. It attached the two of them.

It all fit.

_Great, one problem solved_ , he thought, satisfied that his focus seemed to be paying off.

His renewed energy lowered a bit, with his next realization.

_That’s all great_ , Harry thought, now a little put off, _but there is a rather large problem_.

He didn’t know the first thing about the use of blood magic, and he had certainly never studied it at Hogwarts.

Harry frowned.

Unfortunately, his only reference points for the particular vein of magic had been rather hands-on, in the sense that it affected him when he had wanted no part of it.

Between his mother’s sacrifice and the resurrection of her murderer, Harry had not had a lot of opportunity to learn about the intricacies of the craft.

All the same, blood, blood, there was something about blood.

Lying back down again, he folded his hands behind his head and squinted up in an attempt to think. The ceiling gave no explanation; it was as blank as ever.

Harry knew that Voldemort’s host, Professor Quirrell, had been demolished to dust and ash by just Harry’s touch at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. Since Voldemort’s return, however, the Dark Lord had been able to touch him, and had not shied away from proving it.

From what Harry had experienced as of late, the Dark Lord possibly even reveled in it, especially now that he had Harry in his clutch.

Harry crinkled his nose in distaste.

Harry could only assume the complexities involved in the creation of the powerfully Dark, ritualistic magic that had oppressed Lily’s purely intended protection on the night Lord Voldemort had risen again.

Undoubtedly, that kind of magic had unintended side effects. Side effects that Voldemort thought beneath him as soon as he confirmed that he could touch Harry in the Graveyard without being burned into oblivion.

_Touch_ , Harry mused.

He arched his back and tilted his neck so he was looking at the window upside down.

Harry flipped over, pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and crawled the short distance to the window.

Sat on his knees before the windowpane, Harry knew that this was where he would experiment with any ideas he came up with, as he could sense the ward boundary more clearly than the walls.

As he peered closely, Harry almost saw the thin separation from the glass itself, hardly visible.

He reached out a hand almost instinctively, but drew back. He had to be careful. If Voldemort came back and tore into his mind on a whim, he would see exactly what Harry was up to.

It was paranoia that drove that thought, as the Dark Lord seemed all but consumed with the Wizarding World’s reconstruction. He probably would not be back for a while.

Harry would take as much advantage over the Dark Lord’s distracted absence as he could, and tried not to think on worries that wouldn’t necessarily happen.

As he had the first day, he looked out at the grounds that surrounded the house. They were still shrouded in mist, although less opaque than earlier. This time he also observed more closely what reactions the wards had to his proximity.

He shifted closer to the windowpane, his hands on the sill as he craned his neck side to side. Harry leaned closely to the ward line, and it buzzed with a tangible magic that made his spine tingle and straighten further, like a warning to him to stay clear.

As far as impressions went, Harry felt satisfactorily confident with his assessment that the wards did not attempt to alter his emotions or reroute his thoughts.

Harry was grateful that he was not coerced to forget his name or manipulated into other thoughts upon proximity or contact with the wards, as the Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup were forced to undergo.

If the extent of the wards of the room were to attack only when provoked, then that was a slight relief.

When he had punched the wall last night, he had been electrocuted and soundly corrected about which side of the wall he belonged. Although the warding did not seem to be much more complex or harmful, they obviously made up for it in the yielded range of power.

_Brilliant_ , he thought sullenly.

Even if he knew that the wards were particular to him and reacted with the intensity of his own energy, it didn’t help him get any closer to liberation.

He sat back on his heels and looked up at the sky.

Harry tried to think about what Hermione would do. He came up blank.

That was fine, though. He had already progressed ahead of where he had been this morning. He would figure this out, too.

He stayed like that, crouched next to the windowsill, not really thinking, just letting his subconscious take him down avenues of thought.

He thought about how much he missed his friends, and as he stared out at the bleak sky he thought about Quidditch and how the air might feel on his face. How the light dewy air might mist up and naturally cling to his skin.

Harry was struck with a thought that he had not had in a long while.

There was another time when Harry had experienced blood magic in action, and it had been in the context of protection of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

Harry just habitually blocked the memory, which was possibly as impactful as the night of the Voldemort’s resurrection.

The cave.

Just like that, Harry felt himself fall back into the bed, consumed by sorrow and hate, despite what he knew, despite the truth he had learned about Snape. If Dumbledore had held on a little longer, if he had not died on the Astronomy Tower, then they might have been able to stop Voldemort. They might have—

Harry shook and pushed through the emotions that crashed upon him like relentless ocean waves. His breaths were shallow as he pulled his knees to his chest and kept his eyes closed. Harry reached up and removed his glasses, and placed them on the floor next to him as he tried to breathe evenly. He pressed his head into his knees.

The damp space of the cave pressed in on his body from all sides, the air heavy with stagnant smells of salt air, silt, and damp rock.

He breathed out and opened his eyes.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore stood before him in the cave, the walls blackened in shadow, the wash of the ocean waves distant, swallowed by the hollow tunnel to the small cavern where they stood now. Despite the bleak surroundings, the Headmaster looked at ease.

They were, after all, at the start of what was to come.

Harry jumped as flashes of Inferi tore through his mind, their long, rotting fingers pulling on the sides of the boat, threatening to tip it…

Harry tried to warn the Headmaster of what was to come, but when he opened his mouth, he coughed on the air. What previously had been damp sea air was slowly getting thicker and more acrid.

“Are you feeling quite well, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, and he had concern in the creased lines of his forehead, in his blue eyes. Harry noticed that they hadn’t lost their twinkle, even in the dimness.

A small, sinister voice in the back of his mind said, _not yet._

Harry watched as Dumbledore paced along the cave wall, where beyond laid the lake of Inferi, the bowl of insidious potion, and a fake Horcrux. The Headmaster paused.

“Here we are,” he said brightly to himself, and as he moved to sit, a rock bench jutted out of the wall to meet him.

“P-professor,” Harry spluttered, as he watched Dumbledore arrange his robes around himself.

Harry immediately gagged as he felt his tongue coat with the thick sea air, like he had just sucked on damp, rotten seaweed. He resisted spitting the taste out of his mouth; this was a nightmarish panic he had stirred himself into, but even in his imagination, he could not disrespect Dumbledore in such a manner.

“Perhaps it is best if we don’t speak for now,” said the Headmaster with a good-natured smile and a wink.

Harry stared at him in desperation, but he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth to the foul air again. It was getting worse, the smells around them morphed into decay and sulfide. Harry breathed more shallowly.

Distracted by his thoughts, and trying to get ahold of his mind, Harry didn’t notice that Dumbledore had withdrawn a small dagger from within his robes, and now stared up at the wall he sat against.

Harry took a step forward, and those piercing eyes met his—stoic but hard. They had lost their twinkle.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

“A most curious element of magic, blood,” he said in his deep voice, only offset by the whimsical way he enunciated it.

_Blood._

Dumbledore turned away from him again, and without prelude and great swiftness he dragged a cut along the palm of his hand. It was not the blackened hand of Harry’s memory that he saw here, but rather ordinarily pale in comparison to what Harry had been expecting.

Dumbledore wasted no time, and placed his bloody hand to the wall behind him. The cavern shook, and the wall behind where Dumbledore was perched began to break apart.

Harry shielded his eyes by burying his face in the crook of his elbow. The rumblings stopped.

“Payment that weakens,” murmured Dumbledore, and Harry looked up from where he was hiding his face.

The Headmaster stood in the mouth of the opening that the crumbled rock revealed. He was faced away, as though examining the tunnel’s structure. Harry knew that this was the path to the boat that would take them to the Horcrux, staged in the center of the lake.

At the time, Harry had not been afraid to go down the tunnel, because he had been with Dumbledore. Now knowing what lay beyond, he could not tell whether he was afraid.

“It seems our Tom has quite the inventive side,” said Dumbledore gravely, although Harry felt the Headmaster was still mostly talking to himself. “Though, he doesn’t seem the type to inflict injury unto himself, does he? It always seems others have to pay the price he sets.”

Harry looked away from the dark depths of the tunnel to Dumbledore. The Headmaster was looking at him. He must have seen his nervousness.

“Harry, it is alright,” he spoke gently. “We must push through. We must press on.”

At Harry’s continued hesitance, Dumbledore walked from mouth of the tunnel to where he stood. Harry couldn’t meet his eyes, and stared instead at the white beard in his line of sight. His heart ached emptily at the thought that, even if it was at the Headmaster’s request, he had forced Dumbledore to poison himself. It had all been for a false Horcrux. It had all been for nothing.

The satisfaction that they had managed to steal the real Locket from Umbridge, that Ron had killed the Locket in the Forest of Dean, only diminished the pain Harry felt at this vision of Dumbledore. It still remained, and it probably always would.

“Harry,” coaxed Dumbledore. Harry looked up, and blue eyes met his. They held a sadness that seemed to match Harry’s, but they calmed him. He breathed a little easier, and the air seemed less thick.

“Sacrifice, like love, lives inside of us,” began Dumbledore, patience and calmness prevalent in his words, “in our skin, and in our thoughts. Sacrifice cannot leave; it may only commute itself into another form. You have both a precious mind and heart that have undergone much, but from those experiences, you have learned.” Dumbledore tilted his chin down to look at Harry over his half-moon spectacles.

“The hideous and the beautiful live in harmony because they find their identities in the other. In a similar manner, that which we give away transforms itself into renewed purpose.”

Harry just looked at him, and for the first time questioned whether or not this was really a panicked vision. These words were not something Harry’s mind could conjure on its own. At least he did not think so.

“That purpose, Harry, is something I believe you have always known.” Dumbledore gave a grave nod.

Harry felt his brow furrow at that. He breathed out, as if he had been holding in a lungful of air. He suddenly felt lightheaded and he wobbled where he stood. As if to steady him, Dumbledore reached out and touched his shoulder, and in a blink, the cave, the Headmaster, and the stagnant air disappeared.

Harry was left staring at the shadowlike ripples of his eyelids pressed against his knees. He opened his eyes and saw the close-up lines of his jeans.

Tilting his head back to rest against the side of the mattress, he looked up at the window. The sky was less misty than it had been, but still overcast and grey.

Harry shakily pushed himself up to stand, and looked around. Everything was as bland and in place as it should be. He rubbed his hands along his arms, and felt very disoriented.

His eyes fell on a bowl of soup, which must have come when he was distracted, and Harry tripped around the bed to pick it up.

Still feeling faint, he slid down the wall to sit on the carpet. As he ate, he felt a little better, and he stared at the rectangle of the window. Unable to see the treetops from this angle, he stared unseeingly at the formless cloudy sky and continued to mechanically spoon soup into his mouth.

Halfway through, a chunk of bread plopped in the soup. Harry looked at it as it sopped up the surrounding liquid, and turned the pale bread a soggy tan.

Why he felt so dazed, he did not know. His daydream mixed with his panic had apparently driven him into a near-catatonic state.

When the bowl was finally empty, Harry just held it in his hands, and stared at the little amount he missed. He turned it slowly, and watched the liquid droplet slide around the bottom curve of the bowl.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he straightened his back and rolled his shoulders.

He tsked at himself.

_Purpose._

He had purpose. To be Lord Voldemort’s hidden Horcrux, for all of time, the end.

_Sacrifice, like love, lives inside of us._

He already knew that. Had already been told a hundred times that that was the key to success against Voldemort. Was it helpful? Not really.

_They find their identities in the other._

Brilliant, well, even if there was more to the dynamic of a Dark Lord and a Horcrux, Harry didn’t think that that knowledge was entirely useful.

For one, they weren’t on even footing because of that dynamic. The knowledge that Harry was Voldemort’s Horcrux had landed him in the room he sought to escape.

The room’s wards were proven to not be as complex as the cave’s, with Inferi needed for protection—good Merlin, he hoped not—simply because Voldemort could enter and leave as he pleased. Harry had seen through Voldemort’s own eyes that the Dark Lord had taken the boat to the center of the lake of Inferi, when he had checked to see if the Locket was still there.

Harry was still a Horcrux, isolated and under protective enchantments, but it seemed that Voldemort did not want a delay in checking on him, as there had been with the others.

He was able to Apparate straight through the wards, because…well, he was Lord Voldemort, that’s why.

Harry rolled his eyes, and winced. The headache that had been building since he exited his daydream was more pronounced now.

He wrapped a hand around his forehead and sighed.

_From those experiences, you have learned._

Unless the answer was to learn how to deal with a lifetime of bad experiences, Harry did not feel particularly enlightened.

Harry had Voldemort’s soul, a desire to outmatch the other as though his life depended on it, and his ability to flip to anger in an instant—although admittedly Voldemort was the more extreme of the two when that occurred, because he usually followed his anger up with murder.

Harry took a deep breath and stared off into space. He let out a breath with a strangled sound that could only be heard from a man who held the weight of the world in his heart.

Well, at least they had a lot of other things not in common. Harry had memories of friendship, an acknowledgement of the necessity for both life and death, and a love of life, not a dependence on it.

He also had a nice and youthful face of a young man, much like Tom Riddle did, but Harry had no desire to tarnish his features unnecessarily in the pursuit of something unjustified, like power.

Besides, those features reflected his parents, and Harry, in his melancholy heart, liked that.

Maybe their differences were just as simple as Voldemort may have Harry’s blood as well as his own, but Voldemort lived in another skin, and was recognized to all the world to be himself entirely.

Another skin...

“Wait,” mumbled Harry, and scrubbed his hand across his face. He felt so close to a revelation.

If the wards kept Harry on the inside, but were also made to allow Voldemort to come in and out as he pleased, then that would mean that Voldemort had inadvertently allowed Harry access to the wards, under the right circumstances.

To the entire world, Voldemort may appear to be entirely himself, but Harry knew better.

Harry just had to bring Voldemort’s DNA to the surface of his skin.

It could not be that simple.

Hell, maybe it could.

He should not be thinking about getting through the wards at all, as that was exactly what they were designed against, force. Rather, he should be thinking about how to trick the wards into being coerced with a surgical mindset, not a brute ability one. He needed to do exactly what they were made to do: allow passage for the right person in or out.

There was only one magnificent problem.

There was nothing _sharp_ in this absurdly blank place. The floor was carpeted, and everything else was pretty much attached or rounded in some way.

Harry looked down at the bowl in his lap.

It was a stupid idea. Or brilliant.

Either way, he would have no explanation for a broken bowl.

Harry stood up and back up a few steps. He took aim, and flinched as he tossed the bowl like a Fanged Frisbee against the wall, hard.

It just bounced off the wall with a resounding boom. He winced and looked around, but no one came in to see what the commotion was. Harry quickly bent to retrieve the bowl before it stopped rolling.

Maybe he didn’t toss it hard enough, but he was not about to try again if that was the noise it was going to make. Instead, he took the bowl up in his hands and pressed it with all his might against the wall, to break the ceramic delicately. It didn’t even dent the wall, no matter how hard he pushed.

He walked to the window and threw the bowl down against the sill. With a loud clunk, it bounced off, nearly landed on Harry’s foot, and rolled under the bed. Harry got down to his hands and knees, but the bowl had been Vanished.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Well, that was a bust. The dish seemed to be shatterproof, or Harry hadn’t thrown it hard enough. The noise made him panic about getting caught too much, anyway. He felt so close to testing his theory of blood against the wards, but this was a tremendous roadblock.

Even if he were to wait for another bowl, the silverware was always a damn spoon, metal though it was, it wouldn’t get through his skin. Harry crawled further under the bed hoping to find something, but the mattress was suspended by magic over the frame, of course it was. He went to the wardrobe and peeked around, but it only held clothes. What he was searching for he didn’t know.

He sat and thought. He eventually moved back to lie on the carpet. He opened his eyes to the blank ceiling and turned his head to the wardrobe as if he were seeing it for the first time. He sat up quickly.

Harry had had a lot of injuries over the years, but prickles and splinters that got under his nails or embedded in his skin, from both Aunt Petunia’s garden and Herbology class, were some of the worst. Or at the very least they were some of the more annoying ones.

He got to his feet and swung open the wardrobe doors again, and searched the corners. He picked at the grain, and tried to pry loose a thin sliver of wood.

Harry eventually worked a splinter out from the lifted underside, above one of the clawed feet. It was small and thin, but he just needed to try a small prick to his finger. Just to test this theory.

If this worked, he could have a plan. He shook with anticipation. This could be it.

He winced as he dug the splinter into his index finger, and after a few passes of the sharp tip across the pad, a tiny split appeared. Red beaded up; it was enough, maybe.

Harry smeared the blood across the tip of his finger and knelt by the window. He glanced nervously over his shoulder to guarantee he was alone. He tried very hard not to think of what would happen if he was caught like this, crouched in front of the window, finger bleeding, and very obviously trying to hide something.

He pressed his finger gently against the window’s wards—and felt his stomach sink as he was kept at bay from the glass by that thin invisible barrier.

Harry pulled back his finger, and sat back on his heels. He stared forlornly at the dark spikes of the treetops.

His thoughts plowed over one another, and every one carried heavier disappointment.

That should have worked.

Why didn’t it work?

What now?

A sudden realization made his heart throb hopefully.

He was still sitting. He hadn’t been shocked by the wards and knocked clear on his arse.

In fact, the wards had had no reaction to him at all.

With revived enthusiasm, he renewed the tiny prick on the tip of his finger, smeared the red again to coat the pad, and pressed.

No shocks occurred; the wards did not react again. Harry squinted, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

This had to work. It had to.

He pressed his pointer finger harder into the window; the wards were solid and unyielding.

He pressed harder still, and pressed, and pressed, and—

_Thunk_.

Harry was touching the glass pane. Eyes wide, he bit on his fist to suppress his joyful laugh.

He swiftly withdrew his finger from the pane.

Harry Potter’s blood ran in the Dark Lord.

Barty Crouch Jr. had once had a fanatical moment over that fact, and Harry now understood some of that very excitement.

Voldemort’s ego in his need to use Harry’s blood to regain a body had a latent side effect, with very unintended consequences.

Lord Voldemort probably never considered harming his own body. That was probably below him.

Harry smirked. The Dark Lord’s pride was going to save him.

He had a way to get through the wards. Only one more problem…

Where was he going to get the blood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yell at me in the comments because I was a liar about when this chapter would be posted. I promise it was not intentional and I feel very guilty. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this work, it means so much that anyone does. Until next time, much love to you.


	8. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is really into the phases of the moon. That's it. That's this behemoth of a chapter.  
> Also, there's danger ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said on Tumblr I would post an update on Tuesday, and it's still Tuesday.  
> This update is longer than I could have imagined, but I didn't want to split it into two.  
> I think you are worth a long ass chapter, anyway.  
> That said, I hope you like long ass chapters.  
> I warned you about the turn coming up, so I hope you are buckled up, strapped in, and/or holding onto your loose items.  
> Enjoy.

Days passed and Harry was no closer to finding a way to spill more than a few drops of his own blood at a time. Splinters may have been enough to get a fingertip through the warding, but it would not get his body through the wards completely. Harry was nervous to fiddle with the window too much after his discovery that he could pass, at least in part, through the barrier there. His hesitance mostly stemmed from his lack of confidence about Voldemort’s schedule.

Harry did not think that regular visits to his room were penciled into the Dark Lord’s agenda, but when Voldemort did not appear for days Harry knew it just that many days closer to another surprise appearance. Harry did not mourn the absence, but the Dark Lord also did not say when he would be back.

In fact, Voldemort had always seemed to appear for no reason but to instigate Harry about his existence. As Voldemort was a meticulous person by nature, that had not seemed entirely right to Harry, so he took a rare step back from the situation and thought about what made his enemy tick.

It took some thought, but Harry realized that there did seem to be some commonalities in Voldemort’s visits, and they all revolved around his behavior.

The first time Voldemort came to him after the Battle, he had wanted to gloat, of course, but also discuss the Hallows and Harry’s noticeable obsession with the Elder Wand. The second time he had appeared, Harry had stupidly called out to the Elves, to escape using their magic. That had certainly backfired. The last visit was when Voldemort had demeaned Harry to practically eat from his hand.

Harry grimaced. Voldemort had been oddly concerned—in his unsettling, manic, controlling way—that Harry had not eaten, and was possibly starting a hunger strike—even if it was from depression brought on via the Dark Lord’s provided environment.

Nevertheless, that visit had also included Voldemort returning his Invisibility Cloak, which Harry still had not found a good reason behind. There had to be one, since Voldemort certainly had not turned over a leaf of indulgence and niceties _._

Harry decided that if he didn’t give Voldemort a reason to be suspicious of his actions, then the Dark Lord would be far too busy with running his new world to come around.

Harry was finally able to foster a small sliver of hope that he could see what had become of everything, when he returned to the Wizarding World. Was the rebellion still on, or was it just a totalitarian dictatorship now?

Harry tried to keep his mind in check. The absolute last thing he needed was for Voldemort to feel any emotion too strong—Harry felt that that would too easily warrant a check-in.

It was just a matter of _when_ to escape now.

Harry glanced out at the sunlight that warmed the lawn. He had already decided when he would go.

Almost a month he had been in this room, and he had watched the stars and moon. In just a week’s time, the new moon would be back, and Harry could leave under the cover of darkness, so long as Voldemort remained unaware about his planned movements.

As a necessity, Harry had to control his hope and happiness, but if he was honest, it wasn’t difficult for him to keep up the depressive fare.

Harry moved his foot in his loosely tied shoe. He had one more week for his injured ankle—the reminder from Lord Voldemort to specifically not do what Harry intended—to fully heal.

He gazed out at the rolling hills in the distance and wondered how far away they really were. There was a significant expanse of trees in the way, to be sure.

He sat there on the bed’s edge and swung his leg back and forth. He took his time and pondered distance and plan details, because such was his focus on his new and most important mission: be boring and do not give Lord Voldemort a reason to visit.

Mid-morning two days later, Harry nearly fainted at his poor luck.

The Dark wizard appeared next to his bed, as silent as a shadow. Harry, who had been rubbing his eye, jumped, and almost punched himself in the face.

How long had it been, that Harry had forgotten what it was like to be in Voldemort’s presence? The aura of the room became darker, and Harry was sure that the pale walls had taken on a greyer hue. His skin crawled with the magic that settled into the empty space between and around the two of them.

Voldemort leered down at him and smirked. Harry wondered why he was here at all. Besides his planned deception of the Dark Lord, he had been on his best behavior.

Crimson eyes slid to Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, folded behind him, and Harry felt blood rush to his ears. Internally, he yelled at himself to not get defensive over it, as he automatically wanted to. He balled his hand into the bedspread instead. Years with Uncle Vernon had taught Harry that the more he protested something, the angrier it made the other person. As it had been back then, Harry’s independence was currently not his own, and he didn’t want to give Voldemort a reason to punish him unnecessarily. Not to say that any of Voldemort’s punishments had ever been in the least bit necessary.

“You are oddly mild today, Harry,” said Voldemort with hardly any inflection. He returned his eyes to Harry’s.

Harry was nervous to meet his measured gaze for too long, knowing that it would be the end of everything if Voldemort took a dive into his mind, but he kept his eyes on the man stood above him, on a spot in line with the Dark Lord’s pale, hairless brow.

Harry kept his attention on the brewed emotions as they entered the bulb at the back of his mind, searching for any sign that Voldemort might want to take his day out on him. Thankfully, none of the observed feelings were suspicious, but instead rather curious or mixed in ambiguity.

Harry decided that curiosity was not nearly in the realm of safety, but he could play along with it. He could do this for an afternoon.

“I guess I am finally settling in,” he stated tightly, forcing his voice not to waver.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at that, and Harry’s jaw clenched to keep him from saying anything more.

“Is that so?” he asked slowly, and Harry felt the beginning push of Legilimency, so he averted his eyes from the Dark Lord’s.

“I heard someone at the door before,” Harry played up the part of the teenaged ineloquence that Voldemort so liked to mock him for. It seemed a good distraction because Voldemort’s face smoothed and the threat of invasion into his mind dissolved. The bulb was a swirl of grey, indecipherable emotions, as though Voldemort had suddenly dammed his thoughts.

“Before the last time you were here,” Harry elaborated, partially out of his own curiosity now, but partially to keep Voldemort’s suspicion at bay. He offered a slight side-eyed glance to the Dark wizard. Voldemort’s red eyes remained trained on him, but his expression was impassive. Intentionally blank. Harry swallowed down his nervousness related to Voldemort figuring out his plan, and felt his irritation spark.

“Is there someone else here?” Harry accused.

“I do believe we have discussed this before,” Voldemort’s eyes darkened as he spoke, the black slits so focused and thin that Harry felt examined. Harry didn’t think that they had discussed this at all, and was about to say so, when his question caught in his throat.

“Besides the Elves?” he asked impatiently, and swung his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He glared up at Voldemort with all the irritation he could manage when faced with a Dark wizard who withheld all information and controlled his life.

“Ah, now you may be asking the _right_ questions,” Voldemort sneered. Harry crossed his arms and felt his face color in aggravation.

“So this mystery person can know I’m here, and spy on me, but I can’t know who they are?” he fumed.

Harry had the wind knocked out of him as he was bodily thrown back.

He unfolded his arms to catch himself, but Voldemort wrapped his long fingers tightly around his upper arms and pinned him to the mattress. Those red eyes met Harry’s and though the slits were thin, Harry felt like he was falling into their depths. Voldemort’s flat face was inches from his own, and Harry barely breathed. Like a petrified rabbit, he stayed as still as possible, as if he could go unnoticed under the intense stare of the Dark Lord, the serpent in the tall grass.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort quietly hissed, baring his teeth.

Even under the supreme intimidation, with strong hands pushing him hard into the bed, Harry noticed the odd hints of irritation flash along the bond. Stranger still, Harry didn’t think those flashes were directed at him.

Voldemort huffed above him, as though scoffing at how easily Harry had been subdued. He slowly unfurled his grip around Harry’s upper arms and stood.

Those intense eyes still remained upon him as Harry cautiously sat up, feeling disheveled. He grit his teeth and said nothing, just stared straight ahead at the black robes.

“Alas, Harry, I only came to ask you a question,” informed Voldemort in what he must have believed to be an innocent tone, as though he had not just laid hands on him. Harry knew better, though, than to believe what Voldemort put on the surface. Harry always knew better.

That brief cloud of irritation cleared from the bulb as instantly as Harry had felt it come, replaced by something far too sinister, but without a name. Harry felt the conversation shift like a change in the wind, and swallowed despite himself.

He couldn’t know.

He might know.

_Get a grip, Potter._

He noticed Voldemort had not stepped back and now practically stood between his knees. Harry tried to stay motionless and not to shift backwards, still resentful that the Dark Lord had easily held him down, and moreover, that he hadn’t fought back.

Harry hadn’t fallen into resigned behavior since his youth. That bothered him. Immensely.

Had a month changed him, regressed him, so much?

“Harry, I must request that you be honest with me,” said Voldemort, and Harry felt the tips of his ears begin to burn with horrible anticipation. He hoped it was just his imagination and he was not visibly nervous.

Voldemort could not know that Harry had breached the window’s wards. Were that the case, the Dark Lord surely would have descended much sooner.

He swallowed again and tried not focus on his heart pounding away in his chest. It sounded so loud.

“Have I not always been?” Harry had not meant for it to slip out, and he nearly bit his tongue in regret as pain slashed across his scar. It ebbed away after a moment, but a dull headache remained.

“No,” Voldemort said stonily, and his eyes swam with a deep anger.

Maybe the Dark Lord was here to discuss a detail of the incident in the Forbidden Forest they hadn’t covered—that seemed, most unfortunately, unlikely. Though, at the time, Harry had lied by omission about some key details.

His thoughts whirred as he tried to concoct a believable scenario about how the wards were tripped; Harry sensed the conversation was about to take a turn. He felt trapped where he sat on the bed, like he should stand and face off with Voldemort, defend himself and his guilty emotions, but that would be stupid. He didn’t think he could move, anyway, half-frozen with trepidation though he was, and basically locked in position with the Dark Lord closely towering over him in his black-robed glory.

Harry worried for a mental attack.

That would be just his luck.

“Where is Hermione Granger?”

Harry’s brows drew in and his eyes darted around in surprise, before they finally landed on the threatening ones above him. Confusion blew away his previous worries.

Had he misheard? Did Voldemort just ask where Hermione was, as if Harry knew, when he had been sitting in this very room since the Battle of Hogwarts?

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh, be insulted, or just be confused.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowed as he took in Harry’s reaction.

Harry quickly became frustrated.

They continued to stare into each other’s eyes, but Harry was so honestly perplexed he couldn’t be unnerved by the eye contact, or how easy it would be to tear into his mind.

Did Voldemort really think that they had had a plan over the course of the last year? That the ‘Golden Trio’ hadn’t just traveled the countryside after any Horcrux lead they could come up with?

Actually, Voldemort probably did think that. He might believe Harry to be full of plans and strategies.

Their only plan—which was not a plan—had been doing everything at random. They had constantly grasped at any indication of the whereabouts of the next Horcrux or how to collectively destroy them.

They were teenagers, for Merlin’s sake, not trained in war strategy! Harry felt they were nearly always flying by the seat of their pants, and escaping by the skin of their teeth. Harry felt it would be very insulting to mention that it had been Hermione’s preparedness—with that bloody beaded bag of hers—that had helped them to survive against the greatest Dark threat to the Wizarding World, in modern times.

His scar flared again with impatience, enough that Harry’s eyes watered.

“Hell! I don’t know! Why would I know something like that?” demanded Harry. The pain didn’t let up.

“Seriously,” he said tiredly, and squinted up at Voldemort through the pain of the tortuous headache. “I don’t know.”

The pain lessened.

Voldemort considered him for a few minutes, and Harry resisted the urge to reach up and rub his prickling scar.

“You truly are a boy with no extraordinary talent. To be marked my equal…” Voldemort trailed off as though the rest of his sentence wasn’t worth completing, and sneered down at Harry as though he were worthless.

Since he had been told in recent memory that he was at least as valuable to Voldemort as his precious Nagini, Harry found this slightly funny. Slightly.

“A farce,” the Dark wizard finally spat, his sneer twisting horribly.

Voldemort certainly had changed his tune since telling Harry to _be good to his soul_ ; it was practically a one-eighty, though not in the least bit unexpected.

Harry could not help but feel amused by that, as well. If Voldemort berated the Prophecy for calling Harry his equal, then he actually berated himself.

“Finding something entertaining, Harry?” hissed Voldemort softly. Harry caught the dangerous glint in those snakelike eyes, and realized he should have kept a better lid on his emotions. He had been so busy keying into Voldemort’s emotions that he had forgotten he was little less than an open book to the other man.

“Er, no.” That was the honest truth. He wasn’t trying to get one over the Dark Lord…well not in this moment.

“Where is Hermione Granger?” inquired Voldemort silkily, murderous intention in his eyes.

Harry’s heart lurched, as with that statement he realized Voldemort thought he had lied.

“Honestly, that’s not what I’m finding remotely funny,” he quickly explained. His scar gave a fierce jab.

“Alright!” Harry exclaimed. “Not like funny-funny, just funny, er—” he stuttered as he took in Voldemort’s glowering expression.

Harry did not think it would go over well if he told Lord Voldemort that it was his own fault if he was unhappy with choosing Harry via the Prophecy.

Faced with that menacing glare, it certainly did not sound ‘funny’ in any sense of the word at the moment, even in Harry’s head.

“What are you hiding, Potter?” Voldemort leaned down towards the bed, and Harry leaned to the side, preparing to roll out of the way of any stray spell fire Voldemort sent his way.  
“Not just going to tear through my mind and find out?” barbed Harry.

Damn it, he needed to shut up and not practically extend invitations to invade his mind.

Voldemort, however, did not immediately jump on the opportunity.

“I would prefer…alternative methods with you, Harry Potter.” Harry’s eye gave a slight twitch at the way Voldemort caressed his name.

Harry didn’t know what ‘alternative methods’ meant, but he feared some new form of torture, possibly Horcrux-based.

A few tense moments passed, but nothing happened.

“Er,” Harry didn’t know what was happening. Voldemort just stood next to the bed and looked at him, and Harry felt a mounting expectation fall to him.

“What?” Harry finally snapped, but his tone lost its bite in the wariness he felt.

“I would like to hear the whereabouts of Miss Hermione Granger.”

Oh, Merlin, that was not what Harry was hiding.

“I, er, I already told you. I don’t know where anyone is outside of this room.”

The irritation across the bond spiked.

“Honest,” and he did loathe being honest to the Dark Lord.

“I believe you,” Voldemort practically purred, in a way that indicated just the opposite.

Harry could feel the building lull into the Legilimency attack. He decided to stem it, and quickly.

“Er, you know, w-we never planned out the last year. It was just one thing to the next.” Harry wasn’t sure that he should even divulge that they were that disorganized and acted at random, but he was out of ideas. He continued to stare at a spot to the left of Voldemort’s shoulder.

“Oh, Harry, do you think me naive?”

Two long fingers gently pressed under his jaw and turned Harry’s head forward so he had no choice but to look up at him. Voldemort’s eyes were liquid fire.

“No, really,” Harry implored, his hands gripped the edge of the bed and he hated that he was trying to convince Voldemort, of all people, that he was disorganized in fighting a war he was the central symbol of.

“Dumbledore knew of my plans,” seethed Voldemort. Harry winced slightly. He was just so close to his face.

“If he did, he never clued me in on it!” Harry countered.

Harry pressed his lips into a tight line, and hoped that it would keep him from shouting anything else. He suddenly felt very exposed about a topic that he didn’t like to discuss—Dumbledore. Also that, for all of the responsibility placed on him as Voldemort’s marked foe, Harry didn’t know much about the war at large because much had been kept from him—because of his connection to the Dark wizard.

Voldemort’s face went blank as he stood. His cool fingertips trailed along the length of Harry’s jaw and fell away. Magic seemed to fizzle on the skin that had been traced.

Voldemort stared at something in the distance. It was the expression the Dark Lord used when he considered something that Harry said.

“I mean it,” Harry pacified, taking advantage of the moment of calmness between them. “I don’t know where she is. We always moved at random, so you—er—you would never find us if, well, if we didn’t want you to,” Harry said apprehensively, trying to give truthful information to evade suspicion, but edit out anything that would be even remotely useful. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to tell.

Voldemort tilted his head in a very serpentine way, and stared back down at him as though he had just presented the optimal challenge.

“Oh, Harry,” the Dark wizard said lowly, “I don’t know about that.”

Harry glared in response, but his heart jumped in fear.

“Look, I told you what I know, and I guess now you know what I don’t know, too,” muttered Harry. “So just stop it.”

Instant regret coursed through him as pain slashed across his forehead.

Voldemort was on him in a second, and Harry had no time to roll away as Voldemort crouched over him on the bed once more. One long-fingered hand pinned one of Harry’s arms above him, while the other crushed his throat, and the weight of Voldemort pressed him heavily into the mattress. He tried to suck in a breath, but his ribs were being crushed under the Dark Lord above him.

“You will not give me orders, Harry Potter,” Voldemort hissed fiercely. “You are far below any privilege or right to even speak to me. You are only permitted to do so out of my generous and continuous _mercy_.”

His eyes were grievously close, and they blazed like hellfire. Harry darted his eyes between the two red ones, their pupils thin and vicious, focused on supreme intimidation.

“You will know when I am through with you, Potter,” he spat lowly.

Harry choked under his hold, and Voldemort gave a deliberate shove into him, pressing him further into the mattress as he stood back up. A reminder.

Harry swallowed a couple times. His heart thudded and he felt both fearful and vengeful, a weird mix that amounted in many ways to the humiliation and adrenaline of being manhandled.

He continued to lay there, legs bent over the edge of the bed, arm still over his head, and shirt ridden halfway up his torso.

The bulb was vicious. Harry tried to block it out, but he couldn’t fully. Not when both of them were charged up so fully on their own emotions.

Warily, Harry slowly sat up, and immediately a strong hand was fisted in the front of his shirt. He was picked up by the collar and tossed to the floor.

“Perhaps you have become too comfortable. Perhaps you are forgetful of who your Master is, Harry Potter,” sneered Voldemort above him.

Just as he got his elbows under him, an angry retort already on his lips, Harry raised his eyes. Voldemort attacked, and it was all Harry could do to keep his mind with him.

Snape had once said that it was the Dark Lord’s pleasure to rip apart minds, that Lord Voldemort was extremely skilled in the Mind Arts, to the point of invention of torture methods through its use.

Thoughts, hundreds by the second, shot by.

Harry heard his own yells from far away as he unraveled, but they hardly sounded his own. Reality was there, but he was lost to his past, to his memories, to his fears.

“ _…an arrogant boy of no extraordinary talent…just like his father…”_

Snape’s voice was like a radio station suddenly coming in clear through the static. Memories forked from those flying past like a continuous film reel, and the black-clad professor shot by—greasy hair, a hooked nose, and billowing robes prominent in almost every memory.

_“Do not tell me now, you have grown to care for the boy.”_

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes looked straight through him, and Harry thoughts plummeted away, almost violently.

This time his memory opened to one of a different time, with different circumstances. It was of two years prior, when Harry had sat across from Dumbledore, and he had been told that an old man could make mistakes in trying to protect an innocence that was long lost.

He was ripped away yet again, and Harry felt he was becoming tangled in the disorganization that had no path, like someone else was pulling the strings of his story. He wanted to shut it all out, but his memories kept unspooling, and Harry had a helpless, terrible feeling.

“ _Terrible things, yes. Terrible, but great.”_ Ollivander’s calculating eyes swam into view, with a scrutinizing curiosity that made Harry uncomfortable. That memory quickly faded as well.

Harry heard his own voice then, “ _Do you believe they exist, then? The Deathly Hallows?_ ”

Hermione’s response had not dissuaded him, even as he watched it again.

“ _Of course not, it’s just a children’s book. They’re just stories, Harry._ ”

“ _Hermione…Hermione…Hermione…”_ Harry’s voice came clear through several memories as they sailed past, but none were entered. Harry was searching for something…something…

“… _Harry_ …” Voldemort’s voice swam up, and Harry was propelled into one of his nightmares, into a memory that had never happened.

The Hogwarts castle burned and illuminated the night.

Harry stood from the edge of the Forbidden Forest and watched it burn.

“ _Not Harry. Please! Not Harry, no!”_ Harry looked up as his mother’s sobs rang out against the stars above, but she wasn’t here, this wasn’t real. The darkness enclosed in around him almost like a tangible force. The crackling destruction of the castle echoed across the grounds, even from so far away. Harry turned from the carnage and strode into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

The trees loomed, and Harry shivered. He spun at every twig crack, growl, and brush of leaves across the Forest floor.

He heard a rustle and spun around again. He reached for his wand, but it wasn’t there. He frantically patted his pockets.

 _“Where’s my wand, Hermione?”_ His own voice floated through the trees. Harry ran towards it, as her answering voice came. He was filled with a hopeful feeling. Almost like if he could run far enough, he might see their tent.

He stopped. It wasn’t the Forbidden Forest that he was running through.

_No._

It was the Forest of Dean.

 _Hermione!_ Harry began to panic, feeling his thoughts easily slip from one thought that related to her to another. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.

_“Australia…miss them…better off…They’re safe there.”_

_Get out! Get out! Get OUT!_ Harry ran on, like he could outrun his own mind. He shoved branches out of the way, and sprinted away from the force that followed every new path he tried to take. Voldemort loomed, unseen but there. The Dark Lord saw all.

_“Voldemort.”_

Harry hadn’t meant to say it, and there was no time to fix his mistake. The Snatchers were here, wards or no wards. The Taboo was triggered, and they were coming in.

Harry frantically turned to Hermione, and she had her wand drawn at his face, a sympathetic look. Sympathetic, but determined.

His best friend.

Hermione.

She said a spell before he could stop her; the Stinging Hex flew at his face _._ The memory jerked away.

It was dark again.

Harry ran through the Forest of Dean. Or was it the Forbidden Forest now?

Where were Ron and Hermione?

The trees rushed by as his legs and arms kept pumping out a pace. What was he running from, and where to?

He heard hoof beats, and stalled his pace as the silhouette of a centaur herd thundered ahead. High-pitched shrieks carried over their raucous gallops. Harry’s blood burned at the thought of her. Dolores Jane Umbridge.

The memory tinged red, despite the darkness, and the back of his hand burned.

 _I must not tell lies_.

“ _The blood that runs in these veins runs in the Dark Lord,”_ a man’s maniacal voice called from around a tree. Harry’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, his stomach in his throat, and squinted at the tree trunks surrounding him, an enclosure of dark bark.

Professor Moody, and Barty Crouch, Jr. were revealed from behind two large trees close by, as though they had lain in wait for him. They slowly prowled toward him. Moody looked more menacing than Harry had ever seen him as he limped closer, and Barty leered as he let out a jittery laugh. Harry slid his feet over the damp leaves and took a step back as they approached. The two wizard came very close to each other and melded together like heated wax figurines; the melting shape hideously shrunk, dripped, and morphed into the form of young boy with dark hair and darker eyes.

Young Tom Riddle was dressed as he had been at Wool’s Orphanage at the age of eleven. The future Dark Lord gave him the sharp-toothed smile of his future self as he continued his steady approach.

Harry stumbled back. His hands scraped against the rough bark of the tree behind him. The bark opened up and swallowed him down into darkness; he tumbled backward into the void until he landed heavily on a damp shelf of rock that smelled of silt and seawater.

The cave.

A corner of Harry’s mind whispered to be careful. A corner of Harry’s mind whispered that the Dark Lord was still here.

Young Tom Riddle appeared from the shadows and circled him.

“Harry Potter,” the boy sneered. His voice dripped with disdain, but the words were strange in his child’s voice. “After tonight no one will speak of you, unless to describe how you…begged for death.”

The boy walked forward, and Harry scrambled backwards along the damp rock. He had nothing to fear. He had never feared Voldemort. Why was he afraid?

He retreated until the heel of his hand hit something cold and dropped his balance off. Too late, he realized he had slid a short distance onto ice.

Tom Riddle stood on the edge of the frozen pond and stared down at him with eyes so dark and fathomless they seemed empty. Harry looked into young Tom’s face and wondered again why he was afraid.

“Death would be too easy on your sins, though, would it not?”

_That voice._

A refined, enunciated tenor boomed around the cave. The ice under his hands cracked, and the sound resonated into the water below. Harry looked down to see that a small fissure had formed at his feet. He didn’t dare move now.

He glanced back up at young Tom, but in his place stood the older Tom Riddle he had met in the Chamber of Secrets. Tall, handsome, with an angular face and perfectly styled dark waves of hair, he was visual poetry; his face was sympathetic as he observed Harry’s predicament, but in his dark eyes, emptiness remained.

“I think it will be far better to live the lies you are so afraid of, Harry Potter,” Riddle said in a bored tone. “After all, you are just the savior who needs saving now.” The ice snapped and Harry plunged into the frigid water.

He opened his eyes with a gasp, and immediately held back a pained groan. Harry had survived Voldemort’s thorough invasion on his mind, but his head _killed._

He brushed his forehead and found it was slick with sweat. The carpet was warm and his forearms and elbow stung with a rug burn from where he had thrashed against the floor. Harry held his forehead, and wished the ache would go away.

“You sincerely are as ignorant as you say. That, I do believe,” Voldemort mocked in a low voice. There was another…something there, but Harry couldn’t understand it, not in his current state.

The air was coated with a sinister darkness.

Harry, still breathing hard, wiped his face and shakily sat up. It was a tremendous effort. He felt really weak. He raised his eyes slowly up the length of Voldemort’s body, and the Dark Lord stared down at him, a blank look on his face. Conflict was heavy in the bulb; Harry wanted to check on it, to decipher what Voldemort had gleaned from what he had seen, but his head buzzed with pain and he felt too jumbled to do much more than sit where he was.

“I must say, Harry, you have given me much in the way of finding Hermione Granger and bringing her to her due _justice_ ,” stated Voldemort flatly, almost businesslike, were it not punctuated with a malicious hiss. His snakelike eyes flashed threateningly.

Harry felt hate rise up like bile. His fear, anger and adrenaline made his head pound viciously through his already splitting headache.

Harry broke out of his stupor and lunged at the spot where Voldemort stood. He slammed his knees into the ground as shadows whisked the monster away; the beginnings of a cold laugh faded with him.

Harry roared in the pain in his knees and fury in his pulsing mind. He raged, and slammed his palm into the carpeted floor. He got shakily to his feet and stormed in anger, diluted in this bland environment.

It was a physically central rage, and it filled him to the brim; he would pace one direction to just turn and pace back the way he had come.

_Damn him!_

He was _lying_. Harry hadn’t said a _thing_ useful about Hermione. That had been a manipulative ploy by Voldemort, a mind game gimmick to wheedle into his head, and for _what_?

_That bastard! Damn him!_

Harry paced from the bathroom into the bedroom, and stared balefully at the pillows that he wanted to throw, he stared at the walls he wanted to pummel.

He wasn’t that kid anymore, though. He gave a forceful huff, and tried to calm down.

No, he wasn’t that boy anymore. Violence would only draw attention to him, and it would just result in further injury. His head gave another throb.

Harry slammed his face into the mattress and yelled as hard as he could. When he had vented the worst of his frustration, he gave an angry sigh through his nose.

He had fury, but he wouldn’t throw a further tantrum like Voldemort.

He wouldn’t be petulant like the Dark Lord.

Harry would get one over him, by escaping in one week. It was now more imperative than ever, if Hermione’s life was specifically on the line. He had to find a way to warn her; there had to be a way to do that.

She was brilliant; she had gotten them away from tough situations, but what would happen if Snatchers caught up to her? Britain probably still crawled with bounty hunters and the like.

If Voldemort was on her trail and searched her out himself, though, Harry feared for his friend. Voldemort had no reason to keep her alive.

Harry yelled into one of the pillows again and threw it away from him, back into the bed as hard as he could.

_Damn him._

He heard a scrape on the wall by the door, followed by a creak. Harry glared reproachfully at the closed door. He felt watched, and it made his hair stand on end.

“Fuck you, too, whatever the _fuck_ you are!” he bellowed at the door.

There was no further sound.

_Damn him._

He just wanted to lie down and forget.

For the rest of the week, Harry slept with the Invisibility Cloak under his pillow, out of sight, out of mind for if or when Voldemort came back. Harry didn’t need to give the bastard the plain opportunity to try to take it. He wasn’t taking chances anymore. Not when his goal of escape was so close.

***

The morning of the new moon came. It would be the darkest night, and the best chance to leave.

The past week had felt like the Second Task, and just as his solution for breathing underwater had not come easily to him, Harry still had no idea where he was going to get the amount of blood needed to get out.

He knew he was going to need more than a few drops for the door. He hadn’t explicitly tested the door’s wards, because he worried to alert Voldemort to what he was doing, and was honestly paranoid of who or what occasionally lurked in the hall.

Tonight was the night. It was now or never.

He paced throughout the day, and hoped that a stroke of genius would run him over like a truck. He had splinters, and it was no good for drawing out more than a prick on the pad of his finger. He had tried to crack the bowl again, taking a deep breath and slamming it into the sink ledge in the bathroom, but it just bounced like before.

He was anxious, and he didn’t want to pace anymore as he waited for the setting sun.

He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. As he put the toothbrush back on the counter, he looked at his reflection.

Haggard. It was the word that readily came to mind. His unruly mop of black hair was tangled with the length of it, twisted up from how it had dried. His eyes were as vivid green and determined as ever, above the bruise-like bags that had returned under his eyes.

He could do this. Get out, and then find help. That was the plan.

A part of him said that that was not a plan, which aligned with every other instance of successful escape in his experience, so he was fine with that.

Yes, he could do this, but the how was becoming more important.

Harry glanced through the doorway to the window. The setting sun was almost golden in its decent. Attitude was not the problem. He still didn’t know where the hell he was going to get the blood, and he was almost out of time. He didn’t think he could bear giving up on his chance of getting out. He didn’t want to think of how it might break him.

He touched the toothbrush again, and had a thought—a mad, destructive, very bad thought—that he could not believe had not come to him before this moment.

Harry picked up the toothbrush and nodded to himself; he didn’t have another way. He could only hope that Voldemort would not be called to the scene he was about to make.

He turned the toothbrush around in his hand and flinched as he plowed the toothbrush handle into the mirror. His heart sank when the toothbrush just loudly reverberated the glass.

_Shit._

He actually felt his heart sink in heavy disappointment.

A light clink was heard from the bedroom, and an idea quickly flooded Harry’s head. He walked around the corner of the doorway and saw his dinnertime bowl of soup had appeared.

Blessedly, he had always been trusted with a metal spoon.

Stood once more in front of the mirror, he took a steadying breath. Harry tapped the spoon experimentally on the middle of the mirror. With the spoon gripped tightly in his hand, he pulled back and drove the utensil as hard as he could into the center of the glass.

The tiled bathroom was an echo chamber as the mirror broke apart and rained down. The noise was deafening.

Harry cringed as the cacophony of the giant shards of glass smashed into the sink and counter, and shielded his eyes with his elbow as a few glass bits bounced up at his cheeks. Some pieces broke into smaller shards as the large mirror loudly crashed apart.

He glanced through the doorway into the darkened bedroom and saw that he was, thankfully, still alone.

The last tinkling sound of glass fell to the floor and into the sink, and the new silence was striking in comparison to the monstrosity of sound he had just unleashed.

Looking down, Harry was very glad he had taken to wearing the shoes around, as the tops were covered in fragments and splinters of glistening glass.

There was no going back from this.

He moved his feet, and shook the loose debris off his shoes, the tinkling of moving glass shards and the crushing crunch beneath his feet sounded loud to him. He reached over the toilet to the left of the sink of grab his towel and gently swiped the small shards off the shoes’ canvas.

He carefully crunched over the bits and picked up the perfect piece. Small and jagged, but it would be enough. He carefully placed it next to the majority of the pile of glass. He poked his head out of the bathroom, but the darkening bedroom was still quite empty. Eerie.

It was eerier knowing what he had just done. If anyone came in now, if Voldemort came… Well, there would be questions of the impossible-to-answer sort. Harry had the feeling questions would be the least of his worries.

He carefully knelt and used the towel to usher the shards around the base of the counter and next to the toilet.

Out of sight, out of mind. Harry’s hands shook as he hung the towel back up, where it now sparkled with the tiny glass particles that clung to it.

He carefully picked up the largest pieces from the sink and deposited them to the debris pile. He rinsed his hands and the rest of the little shards down the sink.

He wondered how he looked now. Probably frightened. He turned the bathroom light off.

He picked up his chosen shard and stood by the wardrobe, out of view of the door and semi-tucked in the corner.

Harry was slightly sweating. He looked at the last blending indigos of the sunset and knew it was time.

He thought about Dumbledore and how he thought Harry’s blood was precious. It was; it was his key out of here. He hissed in slight pain as he dragged the shard carefully along the middle of his left palm, forming a wound not too deep, not too long.

It was now or never.

He walked slowly to the door, touched his bloodied hand to the knob, and turned the handle. The knob barely turned, just clicked back and forth. Locked.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Harry pulled his hand back and forced himself to calm down. There was no going back on his plan; there was no cleaning up what he had done. He had already come this far. He had come too far to quit now.

He steeled himself, held onto the knob again and let his magic bubble forward with all the power he had.

Harry thought of his connection to his magic with all his might, and felt the warmth slowly heat in his arms, down into his hands. His bleeding palm burned hot on the knob.

 _Alohomora!_ He thought it with all of his might, and the locked clicked. His eyes widened in disbelief or relief, but he hurriedly opened the door, and peeked into the hall. He clutched the shard delicately in his right hand, but the hallway in both directions was dark and empty. A few paces away, to the left, there was a stairway down, and Harry’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight.

He closed the door behind him and took a step forward. The floorboard creaked underfoot and Harry froze.

That answered what he had been hearing outside his door. He swallowed as he gently moved his foot off of the creaky board. He really, absolutely, did not want to get caught. He was definitely sweating now, and glancing around like he might be seen at any moment—

The Invisibility Cloak.

Harry balked, and his blood ran cold.

Oh, he was not that stupid. He did not just leave it tucked safely under his pillow, as it had been all week. He had not just left it in the room he had just closed.

Out of sight, out of Voldemort’s mind if he came to visit again—that had been the reasoning. Harry had been so worried about the mirror making so much noise and getting caught that he had forgotten the _fucking Cloak._

He turned, swallowed, and hesitated at the door. Why did he have to close it? Voldemort would have known something was off when he just Apparated into the room. The Dark Lord had never used the door.

 _Stupid_ , Harry berated himself, but there was no time for that. Adrenaline pumped through him and he felt a little woozy.

Anxiety mounted, Harry grabbed the knob with his right hand, and got a brutal shock. Right, the blood, son of a—

He quickly grabbed the door with his left hand, still a little sticky with blood, and opened the unlocked door, sprinted to the bed and grabbed up the Cloak. He threw it over himself as he ran for the door. He sprinted out and slammed it shut behind him.

Harry felt him before he saw him.

His head felt cleaved in two by the force of the fury, the murderous intent to rip and tear everything apart.

Lord Voldemort appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Harry, under the Cloak, moved to the side, and glanced over the bannister as Voldemort appraised the door, which was—blessedly, this time—closed.

He moved like a shadow, and swiftly. Harry felt him pass, eyes wide and teeth gritted hard.

Just as Voldemort stepped on the creaky floorboard, Harry fled. He went as quickly as he dared go with watering eyes and a pounding headache. He zipped down the stairs on his toes—impossibly quiet, impossibly fast—feeling ever more dizzy as he took the turn at every landing, to go six floors down.

The front door was before him, the hallway he had run through on his first night was down the shadowy hall to his left.

“ _NO!_ ”

Harry heard the rage when he felt it. He had taken a step to his left as Voldemort gave a mighty yell from upstairs that shook the foundation of the house—it was a deplorable sound, far more than enraged. Shaken, Harry’s knees buckled, coupled under the pressure in his head.

_Keep going! Don’t stop! Sweet Merlin, do not stop!_

Harry nearly blacked out; his vision tinged, and tiny blue lights flickered in front of his sightless eyes. He focused on them, and straightened up under the Cloak.

For all he was worth, Harry ran for the kitchen. He flung himself through the double doors and felt Voldemort behind him, a black shadowy mass that swept down the stairs in pursuit of his Horcrux.

Frantic, Harry’s eyes darted everywhere in the kitchen, and finally landed on a back door, across the room. He rushed forward, and stubbed his toe on a stool, which screeched forward loudly against the tile. Harry stumbled, and dropped the glass shard to the tile, where it shattered to smithereens.

He half-ran, and tried to ignore the sharp throb in his foot. His utmost concern was not to trip again. Just as he opened the back door with his left hand, and bolted out into the yard, the door snapped shut on his heels.

Harry crouched on just the other side of the door, doubled over in pain that barraged him. His hands gripped his hair as he tried to breathe and not pass out.

The kitchen was rent apart; cookware clattered and banged in a tornado of violence. So paramount was Voldemort’s wrath that the force of the calamitous destruction was merely a dull echo to the fear and tremors that crashed through Harry’s head in the wake of its tremendous power.

 _Move! You have to keep going._ Harry’s body shouted, but his mind would not will it to be done. Flickers and spots burst behind his closed eyes, as Harry fought for control of his mind against the power of Lord Voldemort at his worst.

 _Move._ Harry tried to stand, but his muscles stayed crouched, his hands clutched in his hair.

_He will find you. You must move._

Harry breathed through his nose, his hand braced against the lightly dewed grass just in front of him. The blades prickled into his injured hand.

_Push through. He is coming. Move!_

The kitchen had gone silent.

Knowing there were only precious seconds left before Voldemort decided to scour the property for him, Harry forced himself to his feet. He stumbled to the side, and almost crashed into the side of the house; his vision blurred under the intensity of the pain that seared through his scar.

No, he did not come this far to get caught. He did not come this far to fail. Harry’s hand trembled as he brushed his hand over his eyes to clear them, and pushed his glasses up. The agony in his head mounted as he blinked through watery eyes.

The lawn was dark, even beyond Harry’s expectations. The stars shed barely any light, and the moon was as absent as he had hoped for over the last week. The chill of the night air sank under his t-shirt.

Cloak pulled tightly to cover his person, he pushed forward. His eyes were wide in the darkness; the shadows seemed alive and made him ration his breaths as he crept along to the edge of the forest, where Harry suspected the ward boundaries lay. With every slow step, he searched all around for Voldemort to materialize, his paranoia on high alert.

He sensed the veil of wards as he approached. Much like the bedroom window, the magic was barely noticeable, but in the dark it appeared as a slightly ethereal sheen that could have been construed as moonlight on any other night.

One last glance around the eerily silent yard, Harry hesitantly stuck his left hand out, and a buzz ran through his arm, like a small electrical current, and the magic felt as firm as a wall.

Harry swallowed thickly.

 _No. No, no, no, this is not happening._ Harry shut his eyes, and felt as though his greatest fears had never amounted to this.

Shakily, he withdrew his hand from the wards and back under the Cloak. He squinted down at his hand and ran a finger down the cut. His stomach dropped.

The blood was dried.

Harry glanced around helplessly. He breathed out slowly, and swallowed again around the lump in his throat. He resisted running a hand through his hair. His legs felt like jelly beneath him. His head ached and he couldn’t think clearly.

This was it. It was over. Lord Voldemort would eventually find him just within the boundaries of the estate, and Harry would be subjected to a fate worse than death. Harry’s watery eyes leaked in frustration. A thick tear dripped onto his shirt. He was furious.

Damn it all, was it even _his_ fury? His scar pinched brutally, and it was all Harry could do to not yell out.

Grimacing, Harry scratched at his hand, but the bloody line only stung with sweat. He had nothing to reopen the wound and get through. Woefully, he had dropped the mirror shard.

Frantically, Harry mouthed curses. Whatever he was going to do, he couldn’t stay in one place. He had to keep moving until he could figure something out. His scar burned in a particularly vicious manner.

Struck with a horrid thought that the bedroom wards could be different, that he didn’t account for the wards outside the room to be of a different protection. Harry quickly reasoned that, no, he should be able to get through was because he matched the ward maker.

Just as he took his first steps away from the wards, a shadow, thick and dense, blotted out the stars.

The Dark Lord had finally appeared.

Voldemort stood in the center of the yard, a black, impenetrable void of fury accompanied his visage. Harry froze all three times that those burning eyes coasted over his form under the Cloak. All three times, Harry had to convince himself that Voldemort could not see him. The Dark Lord surveyed from where he stood. He was silent, even as the magic roiled off of him in sickening strength. Harry slunk around the outskirts of the lawn, stayed on his toes, and made as little indents in the lawn as possible. He was exceptionally grateful to Fate and Destiny and Merlin that he had thought to leave when the moon was not out.

His scar continued to burn like a red-hot poker was attempting to stab through his skull, but Harry kept his eyes on the man in the center of the back lawn as he moved towards the front of the house.

Voldemort didn’t call anyone. Harry had half expected him to, but perhaps this was the confirmation to the theory he had wondered for weeks. No one knew he was here. He wondered what the Death Eaters had been told about his whereabouts, when Voldemort had absconded with Harry and returned without him, however long after.

Not the time to ponder.

Harry reached the farthest part of the lawn that he could still see the tall form of the Dark wizard, still seemingly staring out at the surrounding woods. He backed away slowly, mindful of his feet and that the Cloak still covered him. He edged beyond the corner of the house, and Voldemort was out of sight. It was strange to be so close and yet so far from the man when he was in such paramount rage. Harry tried to focus through the splitting ache of his head as he headed around the front of the large house, which was much wider than he had originally thought. ~~~~

The house was huge—a mini-mansion—with a large front porch and a long gravel drive. Overgrown shrubbery and tiny pines lined the path, and led to what appeared to be a tall iron gate.

Careful to not step off of the grass, Harry crouched by the gravel drive, and searched for a stone large and sharp enough to open his hand again. He leaned close to the ground, balancing on the balls of his feet, and tried to find what he was looking for in the dark.

A rustle of fabric was the only indication that Voldemort had appeared behind him.

Harry froze and his scar soothed noticeably; coolness coated his scar, but he didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief. Voldemort was listening. Intently.

His scar exploded with redoubled pain. Harry bit his tongue hard and scarcely contained the shout of pain, as he almost toppled onto the gravel in front of him. He teetered on his feet and regained his balance.

Harry barely breathed under the Cloak as the intense pulsations rolled over him, crouched just feet in front of the wizard who was in violent search of him. He strained for control of himself under the agony of his scar. The pain disappeared, a fleeting calm, before his scar exploded again. It was cyclical torture.

After what felt like minutes, his scar returned to a steady, static pain. Harry chanced a look up at Voldemort. His robes seemed to almost move in time to the dark, tangible magic that pulsed off of him. His eyes were burning coals in the darkness, a glinting red with his desire to recapture Harry.

Harry could feel it. He could almost sense the Dark Lord’s thoughts, could almost drench his whole being in the severe hostility.

Voldemort scanned and scanned the front yard, as though he were memorizing every detail of it in search of the wizard at his feet.

The moments passed, each one tenser than the last. Harry couldn’t shift, afraid to make any slight sound with the gentlest of movements; every muscle felt contracted, taut with nerves.

Noticeably, the darkness faded slightly, as if it were being pulled back to the source. Voldemort looked towards the house, and Harry followed his gaze, seeing nothing. An orange light glowed along the house, and Harry looked back to see that fire had appeared all around Voldemort, a ring at waist level. It twisted and licked around the man, as he wielded the Elder Wand, drawing the magic up and around him in a spiral. Harry shook.

The mass of fire twisted and turned into a cone around Voldemort, the Dark Lord now hidden within the bright light. There was no heat to it, though it looked like a chaotic inferno. It spun and spun, and Harry, although curious, knew it could mean nothing good. He leaned away, closer to the ground.

No sooner had he done so, then the cone fanned down and revealed Voldemort, hands extended through the air, the Elder Wand’s silhouette seen in stark contrast to the flickering mass of orange flames. The fire pushed out from him like a solid disc with Voldemort at the center. The wall of flame shooting out above Harry now emanated a blistering heat. Harry squinted up into it, blinded by the light.

Scorched though he was under the Cloak, Harry leaned down more and ensured that the Cloak covered him completely in the brightness. He wildly looked along the underside of the wall of fire above him and saw the flames licked up the walls of the house, but did no damage. It was sweltering; his jeans felt like they were melting to his legs, inflaming the skin beneath. Harry felt certain that, although the house was not burned, he would be, if the fire touched him.

The flames popped and threatened to draw nearer, and Harry felt crowded even closer to the ground to avoid the fire. It was getting difficult to breathe the hot air, and his eyes stung. His glasses burned his face, but he didn’t dare move any more than necessary to avoid the fire.

The flames suddenly spiraled inward, like a wildfire in reverse, and Voldemort’s silhouette was visible now. Harry, still blinded from the intense oranges and yellows, blinked his burning eyes but saw only shadows and imprints of fire. His scar burned with the heat that had just gone—like it was inflamed, like the magic was still above him or had imprinted into it.

Voldemort’s shadow shifted, and Harry’s eyes tried to track it between the waterfalls of shadowy shapes. The fire may have been loud to Harry’s senses, but in the contrasted silence, he could not allow his guard to fall.

The shadow of Voldemort was becoming clearer, and Harry saw his eyes sweep the grounds, and then disappear in a billow of his robes. The black robes snapped against the Invisibility Cloak as he parted, and Harry paused at the contact, but Voldemort did not reappear. Moments passed, and Harry minutely relaxed his tense posture, still crouched at the edge of the gravel path. He resisted scratching at the pain in his scar.

 _What the fuck,_ Harry thought, almost in a daze. The adrenaline’s effects left him worn as it began to filter out of his system. He looked at the house, which had just been coated with magical flames only minutes before. It was surreal.

Something in Harry stirred then, and he felt rationally angry, his emotions on high alert.

 _What the fuck! Was he going to barbecue me?!_ He bordered on furious hysterics, if he wasn’t so disconnectedly focused. To be captured now would be a fate far, far worse than the torture he had experienced thus far.

Then there was the point that he wouldn’t get another chance like this, never again.

Harry snatched a rock from the drive, and snapped his hand back under the safety of the Cloak. He slowly stood, and took care to look around for Voldemort. No sign of him, but as he was now just Apparating around, that was not a comfort.

He tip-toed again around the edge of the lawn, carefully, silently, taking care to move slowly despite his frazzled nerves that told him to throw that caution to the wind and sprint to the ward boundary.

Though he wanted to run, he would never forgive himself if he drew the attention of Voldemort with the sound of his feet slipping softly over the grass. He also worried that the Dark Lord would just materialize in front of him and they would slam into each other.

That would be his luck.

Harry skirted the outside of the yard, knowing full well where the wards were. They pulsed around him, imbued with magic, strong. He was careful not to touch them as he snuck along.

Harry froze when he spotted Voldemort once more. To be fair, the Dark Lord was difficult to ignore; his magic was stifling.

In the hulking shadow of the tall house, his back to Harry, Voldemort’s tall form stood once more in the back lawn. His bone-white head stuck out in a way that the rest of the features in the darkness did not. Harry’s ears pricked up as a light wind blew across the open expanse between them.

Voldemort took a deep intake of breath, and Harry was jarred by the impossible thought that he may have caught his scent, though Harry stood near the edge of the forest, far from the Dark wizard. The seconds ticked by and Harry felt safe enough to take another step forward.

Red jets of light flew across the yard as Voldemort started firing curses.

Harry jerked out of the way of one, and whipped his head around to the Dark Lord, but the direction of the spiral of spells appeared to be sporadic. More fire emitted in much the same disc-like form as it had at the front of the house, and Harry slammed low to the ground. A windstorm kicked up in combination to the inferno blazing at waist height, and Harry let out a groan from the effort of keeping his mind with him through the physical and mental pain of Voldemort’s rage. He pulled the Cloak all around him, and hoped to Merlin that it wouldn’t flap off in the winds that blew spits of fire dangerously close to the Invisibility Cloak’s protection.

Voldemort was frighteningly hysterical, gone was any control he had. He was burning for Harry to show himself.

Pulled forward by his forearms, Harry edged to the ward boundary nearest the forest that would lead him directly to the hills beyond. Underneath the Cloak, panicked and hand slippery with sweat, he gripped the small stone in his hand, and re-sliced his palm with a hiss. The blood glinted bizarrely, darkly illuminated under the orange hue of the magical flames. Holding the Cloak closed about the rest of himself, he gently raised his palm out in front of him.

Before he could place his hand to the wards, Harry heard his voice. It was that sibilant form, the one that slipped into his mind and made it feel as though the Dark Lord spoke from within, that stalled him.

Voldemort cut through the wind, silenced the fiery storm, and plunged them into darkness once more.

“Harry, do you really believe—are you naïve enough to think—that you can conceal yourself, hide yourself…from me?” Voldemort’s voice was everywhere, and Harry suffered to keep his sounds within himself.

“ _Show yourself, Harry_.”

He winced as that permeating voice struck through him, and reverberated deeply in his bones. He tried to ignore it.

It was only an illusion. The air was silent. Voldemort was waiting for Harry to make a mistake. Harry knew he needed only to place his hand through the wards; they would recognize his blood as the same as their creator’s, and he could follow. He opened his eyes and held out his bloody palm.

 _Just like the window_ , he told himself. He fought against the prickling sensation of magic all over his skin.

God, he hoped this worked.

His hand passed through under the cloak, and he quickly pushed the rest of his body through, like a veil parting for him. He sprung to his feet, and his heart rate skyrocketed, as he turned round.

His scar exploded like all of Voldemort’s power struck at once into the curse mark on his head. Harry did cry out this time, and clutched at his head with all the hope he had to make it stop.

Voldemort seemed to have sensed and pinpointed the breach in the wards; the spot Harry had just slipped through now glowed faintly. Harry had to flee. Taking no caution now, he ripped his palm from his forehead and sprinted on his barely healed ankle, hoping to God and Merlin, and anyone who was listening, to not let him trip or get snagged.

He sprinted, and wove, and tried not to hit any branches, but it was dark, darker than it had been in the open lawn, and with no moonlight filtering through the trees, he was slipping up soon. Harry skittered on leaves, smacked into roots, and slid down short drops in the uneven forest floor.

He felt him, as he pounded along. Voldemort was coming, with all the terror he had possessed when Harry had feared his form in the Forest the night of his first detention at Hogwarts. This night took him back to that terror, when he thought he might die, alone and afraid…

His heart simultaneously made itself known in his stomach and his throat as he barreled through the trees, caught up on a new wave of pure fear that shot through him, and his feet barely touched the earth, until he flew down an unseen slope. He slammed his ankle with a crunch and he yowled in pain, the Invisibility Cloak had ridden up his fallen body, so he weakly drew it around himself once more and fell back.

Just as the Cloak’s material again draped over his exposed legs, Voldemort appeared, drawn to the noise. Harry stifled his whimpers as best he could and tried not to breathe despite the pain that crept residually up his leg from his cracked ankle. The Dark Lord emerged in his shadow of flight—the surprising ability that Harry knew made him all the more terrifying.

Lord Voldemort was listening. He smelled the air, not giving away that he was also breathing deeply, winded but hunting. Harry did not dare to move on the underbrush; he was planted where he was planted, petrified with fear.

Voldemort came closer, a slow step over the dampened leaves of the forest floor. Harry watched his silent walk, and bit on his fist, and dared not breathe.

Voldemort walked toward him, almost into him, and Harry could not move. He had just done something terrible—escaped—and in a way that Voldemort did not expect.

Horcrux or not, he could feel that Voldemort’s fury was not ebbing away. He would most likely murder him on the spot in a bout of uncontrolled wrath, or worse. Harry did not know what could be worse, but he would do anything to not find out. So, for fear of being found—too scared to make a sound, silently praying to anyone that Fate would not fuck him over tonight—Harry Potter did not inch away from the danger that slowly crept nearer.

Voldemort then took out his wand—Harry saw his silhouette do so—and the long, bumpy line of the Elder Wand extended, blacker than the shadows of the forest.

A singular flick in which Harry was so focused on the wand, he jumped despite himself when a _bronnnngggg_ noise erupted through the silent forest. A translucent ring spread out from where Voldemort stood, as bright as _lumos_.

Harry felt his eyes go wide as Voldemort stood above him; robes whipped around his body, and he was the epitome of the devil raising hell. Eyes bright and reflective, expression focused, bone white skin luminescent in the impossibly bright light that expanded outward in all directions, just as the disc of flame had—Lord Voldemort was out for blood.

The trees waist height and up were decimated. Cut straight through, and felled so they pointed away from Voldemort and, by proximity, Harry. In the wash of light, power and magic flooded the air, and Harry’s small breath caught on his lips. So in awe was he of the magic that pressed him down from above. Drawn was he to the magic that casted out in such undiluted fashion. In that moment of awe, Harry had no shade of doubt that Lord Voldemort truly was the most powerful Dark wizard alive.

Harry was spared his head being sheared off by inches as he watched the forest be razed. His awe was broken only as the sound of deafening destruction pressed in.

He leaned down more, away from the blinding brightness, the danger. Voldemort was searching in that copious light for any sign of him. If he only knew that his quarry lay right at his very feet, that he missed him merely by inches.

The ring dissipated like a darkening ripple; it was like the sun being chased away. The creaky crashing as the forest was leveled went on long after the wide ring of light had faded into darkness again.

Voldemort stood tall, and Harry wondered if he wasn’t thinking that maybe he had gone overboard and actually cut Harry in two. Harry was not about to risk delving into Voldemort’s mind or go anywhere near the bulb connection at the moment.

“POTTER!” shrieked Voldemort. Harry jumped and bit his fist hard, before moving it to squeeze around his mouth, covering it from any sound escaping. His eyes leaked as his scar seared with pain. The last trees were still crashing into each other like dominoes, creaking and thudding to the forest floor, their leaves shimmying and shaking before falling silent.

A gentle breeze swept over the destruction, the land now partially cleared.

Voldemort knew that Harry was still alive. Harry did not know how he knew that, but it was certain. Harry’s scar had not stopped its white-hot pulsing since he had left the house, and the agony of it made Harry’s eyes water at intervals. Voldemort was so close, so he didn’t dare shift and rustle the ground even a little. Afraid for his life that he so detested, he would not draw the attention of the malevolent force above him.

“Fine, Potter. Flee. I will find you. You cannot go far. Your luck will _break_ , and I will be there to eviscerate you when it does.” With one final scan of the forest, Voldemort took off in a violent rippling flurry of shadow and robes.

Harry lay there, and sensed a trick, some ruse that Voldemort had not actually given up on his search and waited for him to give himself away. He focused on anything other than the stabbing pain that shot up his shin. He lay there, wincing, for no small amount of time, though the seconds passed in agony.

He leaned carefully back against what remained of the tree behind him and let out a small, shaky breath. Of all the instances where he had faced death, Harry had to admit that this was one of the most difficult.

There was a blast in the distance that startled him from his wistfulness. Fire erupted, a glowing mass that was rapidly getting closer. Harry squinted, and realizing it for what it was, felt his stomach plummet as his eyes widened.

Fiendfyre stormed through the dense trees, steadily consuming everything around the property he had just fled.

The bastard really _was_ trying to barbecue him!

Harry got up as best he could, and felt the flames get closer; the heat was scorching as it fanned his face, and he stumbled when he saw the visage of a giant fiery snake. It flew through the air and collapsed in a shower of sparks on the felled trees below its jaw. The crackle of the blaze quickly grew to a deafening roar.

Harry felt true terror rush into his veins, rivaling the most powerful emotions he had felt, even this evening. The flaming snake emerged from the ground and made another lunge overtop of Harry. The pain from his ankle spiked as he accidentally placed weight on it; he yelled out as his leg gave way under him, and sent him to the forest floor. Unable to move away, the light of the Fiendfyre encroached on him. The scorch of its arid heat was borderline unbearable on his skin. The immense snake tipped downward and Harry squeezed his eyes tightly as the flaming creature swallowed him whole.

There was a rush of wind, so strong it nearly blew the Cloak off of him. The roaring crackle and heat was gone, replaced by a different, more distant noise and a cool, strong breeze.

Harry warily cracked open an eyelid to peek around, and he was in the forest no longer.

Turning his head in confusion, he saw he was in a large field of tall grass, near to what appeared to be a large body of water. The grass was steadily swaying in the inland breeze, and the water was possibly an ocean. Squinting through the night, there was not much else around.

That was not at all helpful in orienting him. Another sea breeze ripped into him, and made him shiver. He pulled the Cloak closer.

His scar was still pulsing painfully, but it was thankfully much duller in intensity. He must be a great distance away from Voldemort and the mini-mansion he had been kept in.

Harry had no idea how he had gotten away. He supposed he had accidentally Apparated when he was younger, and he had just now felt under such a threat that the magic bottled inside of him for weeks had erupted, no longer contained by wards of any kind. He supposed that he had just thought of getting to freedom, and his mind had pictured the sea.

Damn Voldemort and damn his tactics. He had almost destroyed his Horcrux, intentionally or not. Harry could have kicked himself. He could have made the timeline right; he could have died.

His leg gave way again, and he collapsed to the ground. He hissed curses openly now that he didn’t have to keep them contained. As he examined it now, his foot really was fucked. The small mercy was that no bones protruded in any way; it was just incredibly swollen.

He sat back on his hands, and ripped the Invisibility Cloak off of his head. He sucked in a deep breath for what felt like the first time in ages. Sat in the tall grass of his field, atop a cliff overlooking the black water, Harry listened to the waves roll and seethe against the shore.

From down on the ground, the tall grass partially sheltered him from the ocean breeze, so it pleasantly ruffled his hair. Crickets and other evening insects hummed a song, and the occasional lightning bug strobed in and out of place. It was what had been missing from where he had just left. There had been only surreal silence, even in the woods. Here, it was calm, and peaceful in a way that soothed the stress of his escape. Harry could hardly wrap his head around the events of the evening.

After a few minutes, he rolled the discarded Cloak up and gently propped his ankle atop of the bundle. He would just rest for a moment; take a breather.

Wishing he had his wand to fix at least some of his most dire issues, Harry leaned back in the tall grass; it was slightly damp, but Harry didn’t mind. Not at all, actually, after all the time spent staring out at treetops, wishing to be free. He had forgotten the itch of grass against his skin, and it was most welcomed now.

His scar faded to a prickle, but Harry didn’t know what that meant. He somehow doubted that Voldemort had just accepted his loss.

Hands clasped behind his head, Harry felt invisible to the world, perhaps for the first time. No Privet Drive, or Burrow, or Grimmauld Place, or Hogwarts where he was supposed to be. He wasn’t expected anywhere.

Unless someone stumbled upon him in this field, the world thought him dead; one sole person knew for sure that he wasn’t, and Harry did not think that the Dark wizard was all too happy with that fact at the moment.

Though he was injured, with no one coming to his aid, he did not feel helpless. In not knowing where he was, he did not feel lost. He would figure it out, and he would continue on.

In the moments that followed, under a dark, clouded sky, Harry Potter listened to the distant crashing waves and experienced a type of freedom he had never known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end, congrats. Thank you for reading.  
> If the mood strikes you, drop a comment/critique/keysmash and let me know what you think. I read them all, and I love them all.  
> I am so grateful to the kindness and support this work has received. Sharing this story with you has brought me equal amounts of joy.  
> Until next time, much love to you.


	9. The Difference a Day Makes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry leaves that field he landed in, and then goes somewhere else...and then goes somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just seems to be one long chapter after another.  
> I don't know what's up with that, but hope you like ~length~, because that's apparently what you'll be getting with this fic.  
> Enjoy.

Between the consistent pulse of the waves and his own calm breaths, Harry drifted off. Despite the chill of the night, the rhythmic sounds of nature lulled him into a light sleep—one where his body was still aware, but his mind was in a place all its own.

Before long, the sun had risen enough that he could not ignore the light, and it insisted that he rise with it. At some point, he had curled in on himself and turned sideways in his unnoticeable indent in the field’s high grass. Stiffly, he rolled over, wincing with a hiss as he knocked his ankle against his leg. In the pale yellows of the sunrise, he gently rolled his pant leg up to reveal the softball-sized swelling around his ankle.

Harry cursed softly.

_What now?_

Staying low, Harry glanced up over the swaying grass. He didn’t fancy being seen camping out in the open by anyone, Magical or Muggle, and he still had no idea where he was, which was less than excellent.

As he swiveled his head around, though, the most noticeable feature of the surrounding landscape was a mass of trees to his left that appeared to be an uncultivated grove. There was an open expanse of field to his right, and far behind him was a steep hill, dotted with vegetation and large, jagged stones. He couldn’t see the surf from where it crashed its cadence against the shore below the cliff’s edge.

Everything sounded louder as the sun rapidly ascended. The grey morning mist swirled gently around the field, coiled under sunlight in one moment and dissipated the next.

Harry unfurled the Invisibility Cloak and shook it out in the limited space in front of him. Disorientation and sleep ebbed from him as he started to get his blood moving after a stiff night on the hard earth. He blew out a large breath, and tried to ignore the throb that ran up and down his leg.

Hunger was also letting its steady pains be known with a sickening spread of discomfort through his torso. He hadn’t eaten in a while, not even his soup yesterday evening. He regretted that now, although he knew that he should be praising his past self, barely making it out of that place.

A thrill ran through him at the brief flashes of memories—fire, darkness, blood, magnificent power—and he shuddered as goose bumps erupted down his arms. He smoothed his hands up and down his arms, hoping to bring comfort to at least part of his body.

Satisfied that no one was around, he hopped to standing, unbalanced, as he kept his injured foot off of the ground. Harry took a look out at the water. Visible in the pale morning light, the blue-gray expanse stretched out to where it curved over the horizon. With one last deep breath of sweet, dewy air, he swung the Cloak over his head and began to move across the field, away from the sea.

The grass swished around him, and several times he almost got his foot caught as he navigated through the thick weeds. At the edge of the field, below the base of the hill, Harry tried to form which way to go. The tall slant of the hill was fully illuminated in the yellow hues of the risen sun.

He stood at the very edge of the field, on the shoulder of a road—packed dirt and a byproduct of poor maintenance. Weeds and overgrowth crowded in from the ditch on the opposite side, and plenty of loose stones were scattered on the road’s surface.

“Yeah…” Harry mumbled to himself, and sounded uncertain to his own ears. He faced to the right of the hill; there was a bend in the road that he couldn’t see beyond, as it curved along the base of the hill. He pivoted to his left, and his face drew into a frown.

Even as he squinted into the distance, hoping to see any form of civilization, the other direction clearly went straight along the open grassy field that he had just parted from. There were no houses or any helpful landmarks to assist with his current orientation predicament. The prospect that he could limp for miles just to find that there was even more nothingness beyond daunted him.

He hadn’t the foggiest clue what either direction held, though.

“Yeah, I—” he muttered again, looking both ways multiple times.

Lightly grunting under the effort of standing still with one foot raised and nothing to lean on, Harry decided that any direction was better than idling.

Hopefully, one would lead him to food. His stomach gave a pang at the thought, as if called upon.

Merlin, he felt pathetic. With too many basic needs not being met at the moment, his mood and decision-making were incredibly inhibited—his brain felt fuzzy at best, and his scar was a static prickle, nothing unmanageable—especially in comparison to the previous night.

Harry spared a thought to Voldemort—a brief remembrance of the Dark wizard standing like a statue’s shadow in the middle of the yard, sensorially hunting him. He shivered again, and the prickle in his scar grew more pronounced, for just a moment, before it faded to its static tingle.

Headed to the right, he limped along the shoulder of the road. Reaching the small grove of trees was like a milestone.

It was slow going. Harry took frequent breaks as he tried to find a rhythm that would carry him far enough to get to a place that wasn’t open nature. The sun rose until it was just constant, unblemished light—gone were the clouds and overcast sky of yesterday. Slowly, it became hot under the Cloak as he continued on, his good leg frequently becoming tired. Harry knew he had to push through, though, that it wouldn’t get any better until he could find civilization.

It had to have been hours—it certainly felt like it—with many dips and hills in the road that he struggled up and down. His mind stayed pretty blank, focused on the task, focused on putting as much distance as he could into each step.

It was grueling effort, but on the crest of hill—where Harry nearly collapsed into the overgrown ditch, his legs burning from hopping to keep his foot elevated—a small building could be seen at the bottom.

Harry’s heart gave a relieved, hopeful beat.

When he reached the bottom of the hill, there was a roadside store to the right. The store was set a short distance from a cliff overlook, past a spot of land similar to the one that Harry had slept in. Here, though, it was cleared of tall grass, and fenced-in.

Out front, there was a spoked wagon wheel propped against a disused wooden wagon. Harry approached the wagon—full of potted plants for sale—and leaned against it.

He had no pride in how heavy he breathed, despite the excuse of the heated air that had accumulated under the Cloak with him.

Exhausted and unfocused, Harry gingerly sat down to collect himself. He spotted a chalkboard sign that rested against the large wheel.

The chalk read:

Welcome!

Flowers for that special someone!

Pies—Apple, Cherry, Blackberry!

Come in!

Harry glanced around the wagon to the front door. The shop seemed quiet. From where he sat, a car bumper was viewable, parked on the far side of the storefront’s short porch; the shop owner must already be inside.

He bit his lip, and thought. Though a rush of encouragement flooded him—he had found a place that had food, if the sign was to be believed, he was cautious.

High on his list of necessities at the moment, the thought of food was dampened only by the fact that Harry had no idea who was in there; this appeared to be a Muggle shop in the middle of nowhere, but Harry had learned over the years to not trust appearances.

The other issue lay in how he was supposed to enter the store.

The door was closed, and if it suddenly opened of its own accord, Harry thought that that would be suspicious to anyone, Magical or Muggle.

Although, without his Invisibility Cloak, he did not think it would end favorably for him, looking as he surely did—a fellow who was roughing it in the middle of nowhere, with no car, or even identification.

He usually wouldn’t be so timid with his approach, but if the person who ran the shop was from the Magical community, or recognized him, he had no guarantees that he would be allowed to leave. What would he do then, escape under the Cloak? He had nothing with which to defend himself if things went awry.

Merlin, he hated this.

As Harry contemplated and hesitated, his prayers to the universe for intervention were answered.

Bells jangled as the shop door opened, and a man in an apron propped the door open with a standing fan. It was rather hot, even as early as it was. It must be the sea air carrying the humidity through every crack in the building.

Path decided, Harry got to his feet again, huffed a breath out to psyche himself up, and stepped up towards the front door. He left the Cloak on.

He quietly hurried past the fan at the threshold, wincing all the way as he put weight on his hurt ankle to avoid stumbling.

The store owner sat behind the counter. He was a bald man with a thick black mustache, and wore a light, pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. In his hands was a newspaper; its corners flicked lightly in the air current from the electric fan in the doorway.

He crept closer under the Cloak, and kept his eyes on the man who read quietly aloud to himself as his eyes slowly scanned the page. Harry tipped his head low and to the side so he could read the name of the newspaper; it was none that he recognized, which brought him slight relief. This may be a Muggle establishment, after all.

Since the man was engrossed in reading the morning paper, Harry felt safe to explore around the shop.

It was better than he could have hoped. There were baskets of fruit, and baked breads lined other tables. The advertised pies were boxed-up in tiers on a single table, with small paper cards indicating the type of pie in each box.

A throat cleared behind him, and Harry’s heart shot to his throat as he glanced over his shoulder. The man hadn’t moved from his spot, but rather just adjusted his position on his stool seat, and shook the paper out stiff in front of him.

Harry turned back toward the wicker basket of bread.

He shouldn’t steal, but he had to eat before he moved on. He hadn’t the money to pay for anything, anyway. The store owner seemed nice enough, but Harry didn’t think the man could be swayed to give his goods away for free to a vagrant, even a vagrant with a good story.

Checking again that he wouldn’t be noticed taking from the basket, he reached out and snagged a roll. It was soft in his hand, and he was dying to taste it—to have something other than vegetable soup and hunks of dry bread.

He took a bite, and the roll had sweetness to it, like the butter was baked into it. His mouth immediately watered and he tried not to scarf it all down in two gulps. Harry grabbed another roll and moved around the table as he heard a car pull up on the packed dirt outside.

He bit into the second roll less ravenously, and took a moment to appreciate this man for his baking talents. It was either the best bread he had ever tasted, or he was just that hungry.

Harry was just eying a banana when he heard the wooden clunk of someone confidently step up onto the front porch. The man behind the counter set his paper down next to the register.

“Morning, Andy!” came a cheerful voice, and Harry nearly dropped the bread he held as his jaw hit the floor.

Arthur Weasley was standing in the doorway.

Arthur bloody Weasley, dressed for the Muggle world in his gray suit, and orange and green tie, stepped over the shop’s threshold, and Harry hardly contained his surprise.

Harry was so out of sorts, and again relieved that he hadn’t removed the Cloak. Was this a Wizarding establishment, after all? Nothing seemed to be magic in the store, and Mr. Weasley seemed to have made an effort to don Muggle clothes. It would have been one of the most normal outfits Mr. Weasley had ever worn to blend in, were it not for the flashy purple socks pulled up the outside of his suit pant legs.

All the same, if this did turn out to be a Wizard-owned shop, Harry definitely did not want to be seen. What if this Andy was a supporter of Voldemort?

No, couldn’t be, not if Mr. Weasley shopped here.

Harry glanced between the two several times. The man named Andy didn’t seem very impressed by Mr. Weasley’s outfit as his eyes roved over him.

Still feeling paranoid, Harry’s mind knocked himself out of his momentary freeze, and a plan formed itself. He sprang into action, shaky though he was.

As Andy and Mr. Weasley exchanged pleasantries—and Mr. Weasley was far too boisterous for the morning—Harry had to bite back his joyous excitement.

He rushed to grab several bananas and a few more rolls. He shoved the fruit as best he could into his jeans’ pockets and held one of the rolls in his mouth as he made his way as swiftly and quietly as possible to the door.

He slipped outside to wait by the car. Harry breathed a little laugh out his nose when he saw it.

A teal Volkswagen Beetle—enchanted, it had to be—gleamed innocently in the sunlight that now beat down. Harry stood by the back door, and thought over his plan. It would be good. He practically vibrated with excitement at the turn in his luck.

Arthur came briskly out of the store a short while later, a large bundle of groceries carried in a paper bag.

As Mr. Weasley opened the door and placed the groceries into the backseat, Harry waited for his moment. Arthur closed the back door and strode around the front of the Beetle to the driver’s side. As he opened the driver’s side door, Harry matched his movements, popped the back door open, and slid inside.

Mr. Weasley stared at the door that had just reopened. After a moment, he walked around and closed it again.

“Darn thing is so fascinating,” Harry heard him say, muffled through the thin pane of glass. Mr. Weasley shook his head as he slid into the front seat, and started the car.

Harry’s heart leapt with a thrill of affection as he stared at the back of Arthur’s head. His eyes darted to Mr. Weasley’s reflection in the mirror, and Harry could hardly control his grin. To be so near to someone he knew, to be going to—Harry assumed—the Burrow, of all places.

 _Turns out, Fate sometimes favors Harry Potter, too,_ thought Harry smugly. His scar’s prickle grew in strength again, like a swell, and then faded.

They drove shakily down the road, and the gears ground horribly as Mr. Weasley struggled to shift the manual transmission at the right times. Before long, Harry found himself braced against the headrest as the car violently lurched at odd moments. By Harry’s estimation, it was only a few miles before they entered the anti-Muggle wards—he could feel as they passed under them, and that which had been invisible on the other side of the wards could now be seen.

The Burrow’s stacked form sent another aggressive throb of joy and happiness through him.

He was home.

Through the window Harry saw a man sat atop a wide post at the end of the plank fence. He looked bored as he picked at his nails.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man as a Death Eater. Since when was the Weasley’s house a plottable place?

Had Voldemort finally relayed the news of Harry’s escape to his followers? Either the Death Eaters knew about Harry and his narrow escape or Death Eater guards posted at Order residences was routine now.

Harry had more questions than answers as Mr. Weasley idled the Beetle—he muttered under his breath as he rolled the window down.

“Where are you coming from?” the Death Eater questioned with a sneer. “Could hear you coming from a damn long way off, Weasley.”

“Goyle,” Mr. Weasley acknowledged gruffly. “Grocery errand.” He jerked his head towards the backseat.

Goyle, who Harry now recognized in resemblance to his son, leaned sideways from where he was sat on his makeshift stool—still absently picking at his fingernails—and peered into the backseat. Harry subconsciously sank into the car seat, even though he knew that Goyle was looking through him at the large paper bag of groceries on the seat.

Goyle grunted dismissively, as though he had much else to do. “Carry on.” The Death Eater waved vaguely in the direction of the chicken yard, and resumed his more focused attentions to his fingernails.

Mr. Weasley roughly rolled up the window as he pulled up next to the box garden against the post-and-board fence, taking care to not run over any slow-walking chickens. He mumbled angrily under his breath all the while.

Harry suddenly felt pressed for time. He hadn’t brought up that he was here in the backseat—truthfully he didn’t know what to say to the man, and had been getting more anxious the whole ride.

If he announced himself now, Harry feared it would cause a scene and scare the man half to death. Goyle didn’t seem to be the observant type, but even he wouldn’t miss Arthur yelling or loitering in the car.

Before he could swallow his hesitance and decide whether to whisper something into Mr. Weasley’s ear, or just sit tight and see what their new normal looked like after the Battle, Mr. Weasley popped open his car door, and Harry scrambled to shift the groceries close to the door on the opposite side, so he could leave as unnoticed as he had before.

Maybe it would be better to gain some reconnaissance, he reasoned. He knew full well that that was not the truth, and that his anxious heart ached to be in the Burrow, to talk things over with people who cared for him. His scar pulsed and he scratched it—the itch didn’t really fade this time.

A part of Harry told him that he was worried for the Weasleys not accepting him back into their fold after what had happened to Fred, and then not being able to be with them after the Battle, to help them mend.

The Weasleys had always treated him like family; even so, Harry always slightly felt like an intruder, even after all these years of history with them. They had always been there for him, but, despite what Mrs. Weasley said about him saving their family many times, Harry felt he hadn’t equally been there for them.

If he had died, Voldemort would be that much closer to being mortal, and the Wizarding world would be that much closer to freedom from the Dark Lord’s reign of oppression.

Instead, Harry had become the Dark Lord’s insurance policy, his known liability. Harry had the beginnings of a terrible a headache, one that built steadily since he left the seaside shop.

Resolved, he decided would not make the Weasleys’ lives harder. It wasn’t fair to them, after all they had done.

Mind made up, he limped on his good foot to be by the Burrow’s kitchen door, which directly faced the front yard.

He glanced at Goyle, who now stared off into the distance, down the unkempt road that they had just come down. Mr. Weasley moved past Harry, and opened the kitchen door. Harry was about to just slip in after him, but froze upon seeing that there were a few shadowy people standing just inside the door. His hesitance cost him, and the door slammed in his face.

Harry moved by the kitchen window and peered in.

Mrs. Weasley had her hands on her hips, and looked irate. Arthur put the groceries down none too gently on the kitchen table. A civil, but tense conversation broke out.

The gist Harry gathered was that these were officials from the Ministry who sought the whereabouts of an escaped prisoner, and wondered if the Weasleys harbored or had been contacted by anyone.

As Mr. Weasley angrily explained grocery shopping to the Ministry officials, Harry realized that the guard posted at the Burrow’s property line might be a new addition as of last night.

Harry waited by the window, and tried to catch all of the words that were volleyed between the Ministry officials and the Weasley heads of household. When the shadowy folks from the Ministry spoke, it was in tones too low for Harry to make out, but ‘prisoner’ and ‘public safety’ were mentioned several times.

Not once did Harry hear his name, though.

Apparently the visitors had dropped in unexpectedly through the Floo in the living room, because the three of them turned and left without guidance. Three instances of green light flashed through the adjoining room’s doorway.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hugged in the kitchen. Mr. Weasley said something into her hair that was too low for Harry to hear through the window, but she raised her head off of his chest in alarm.

Harry made out some words that had something to do with work.

As he began to piece some things together, Harry glanced around himself again. Goyle still looked down the road. About to turn back round, Harry nearly leapt out of his skin as the startling crack of Apparition sounded. Another cloaked person appeared on the other side of the wards, and Goyle stood from the wide fence post he sat upon, expectant.

The new person looked down the road toward town and then around themselves. After a few moments, they strode forward until they must have entered the wards, because they looked up at the Burrow with a mixed expression upon being able to see it. Harry had a feeling the newcomer was at least slightly impressed that in Burrow’s leaning structure...or affronted by the uniqueness of the house.

Goyle was obviously trading places with this new Death Eater that Harry didn’t recognize.

Scoffing at Goyle, they shoved past him, and waved their wand to Transfigure the post he had been sitting on into a chair. The loss of the end post caused the fence’s planks to collapse into a slanted pile.

A bang made Harry jump and when he spun around he came face-to-face with Mrs. Weasley through the window. She wore a furious expression as she stared at the broken fence.

She looked like she was about to open the window and give the new guard a piece of her mind, but Arthur’s voice came through the pane, gentle and clear, as he tugged on her arm.

“It’s not worth it, Molly.” Now Harry could see that Mrs. Weasley looked close to tears—angry or sad, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that she was stressed because of _him_ , whether she knew it or not.

He wished for the millionth time that he knew what had happened in the crucial month he had been gone. The two walked through the kitchen and disappeared into the living room.

Harry stopped peering through the window, and leaned gently against the house. He watched the head of a garden gnome as it wiggled under the dirt by his foot, trying to extract itself from the hole it had been sleeping in.

Harry didn’t know what to do.

He felt like he needed to stake out the Burrow for at least a little while, and see what their reality had become, before he tried to insert himself and made it all worse.

They probably wouldn’t be able to stop Voldemort from recapturing him, if the Dark Lord was alerted that he was here. The very last thing Harry wanted was for the Weasleys to have to deal with his crisis or be hurt in the process.

Glancing once more between the empty kitchen and the guard—who was staring at the grass at their feet with concerning intensity—Harry decided to head into the fringe of the forest and come up with some next steps.

When he finally settled on a relatively dry patch of leaves and ground, it was between two larger trees set about twenty feet into the woods. He stared up at Ron’s window. It was closed and reflected the sun at the moment, so Harry couldn’t see whether there was any activity in the room.

Harry felt both a rush of sadness and excitement at the prospect of seeing his friend again. He had so much to tell Ron, but he worried about rejection. Harry worried that Ron wouldn’t want to see him, that in his secrecy of attempting to do just the opposite, his best mate thought had turned his back on the Wizarding world.

A small voice in his subconscious said that that was absurd, and that Ron would be thrilled that Harry was alive and well. All the same, the conflicting emotions swirled sickeningly in his stomach. His head gave a throb, and he leaned back against the trunk of one of the large trees.

Harry gave a light sigh. He should have just talked to Mr. Weasley on the way over. Every time he had thought to open his mouth, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He hissed as his ankle gave a terrible throb. Now that he was seated and no longer entirely distracted, his injuries were making themselves known, in spades. He had put his body under quite a lot of stress over the last day, and now more than ever, Harry wished he knew how to perform perfect wandless magic—and not the frantic kind he had managed so far.

His rolled up his pant leg with difficulty and stared at his swollen foot with a sigh. It was severely hurt, to say the least, and Harry didn’t think he would get a reprieve any time soon.

How he had Apparated so close to the Weasleys he had no idea, but he guessed it was safety he had had in mind. The Burrow had always been like a home to him, just like Hogwarts.

He sighed deeply, and looked through the trees longingly, to the house that he wished he could go in. If only he could know that he would be welcomed within those walls.

Insecurity, that’s all this was.

Harry winced again as he tried to move his foot into different positions, to see which was most bearable.

The thing about the Weasleys was they had always insisted that he was welcome as a part of the family, and he appreciated it, but he also felt like a guest in many ways. They were the best family he could have, but…there had always been a disconnect. It was an unexplainable thing, because he viewed the Weasleys as family, he really did, but it sometimes felt like a welcome atmosphere that wasn’t his own.

He brushed at a leaf that tickled the side of his ankle, and gently prodded the swelling to see where the worst of it was.

With Sirius it had never felt that way. It never felt like he had to insert himself to fit with a dynamic that was clearly functional and established—mostly because there wasn’t much structure to begin with. That wasn’t a bad thing, in Harry’s opinion. They had gotten along, and always without the need to say too much.

If he could have lived with Sirius full time, just the two of them...even for a little while...To know what that would have been like was a far-off dream now.

A large flying insect buzzed by him and he vaguely swatted at it, even though he still sat under the Cloak.

He had viewed Sirius as family, because they were both displaced, they had things in common, and—probably the most important, if Harry could admit it to himself—Sirius was as alone as he was. They cared about each other because they had been all the family they had had left—well, all the family that they could handle.

Sirius’s disdain for Bellatrix as the same that Harry had had for the Dursleys. It was apathy to their kin, because their relatives had been less than ideal.

Well, that was putting it mildly.

Harry had removed the fruit from his pockets when he had sat down, and picked up a banana from the small pile. He slid his fingernail along the thick skin by the stem, splitting it open so he could peel it down.

He wanted to know that he would be welcomed back to the Weasley home with open arms, but he was unsure.

What was he so afraid of?

Maybe it was the fact that there were Ministry goons and Death Eaters coming freely into this space that used to be warded against them. Again, Harry wished he had some insight into what had taken place over the last month. His best advantage to evading capture or notice by anyone was to observe.

He had a little food, at least for today. He didn’t think that he could sneak into the Burrow undetected, though—not easily, anyway.

The Weasleys may currently be monitored, but even so, they knew how to safeguard themselves after two Wizarding wars. The last thing Harry wanted to do was trip an alarm or something and alert the Death Eater guard at the gate that someone was here.

He peered through the trees again, but couldn’t make out the front fence from this angle. That was good, because it meant that they probably couldn’t see him either, even if he wasn’t still under the Cloak.

Merlin, so this was what it was like to ‘go it alone’… Ron was right; it was foolish to think this was a sustainable thing to do. Now that it was necessary, it was exhausting to constantly second-guess his choices, and focus on being as careful as Hermione had always been.

His heart gave a pang as he thought about Hermione, and how Voldemort was on the hunt for her. He hoped so desperately that she was okay.

Harry resolved right then and there that he would enter the Weasley residence sooner rather than later and get help, inform someone that Hermione was in grievous danger. He would have to push past that ridiculous notion that he wouldn’t be welcome, that they wouldn’t help him.

As soon as that confidence sprang up, his insecurity was back in the next moment, and he felt like his spirit deflated.

Merlin, he was just so tired.

His eyes drooped, feeling the effects of the warmth under the Cloak, and he fell into several bouts of micro sleep until he finally succumbed.

Rage.

It coated his mind in syrup, and his consciousness struggled in the thickness of it. He was sequestered off to the side of a mind he knew sickeningly well.

Once more, Harry experienced the storm of Voldemort’s mind, trapped in a vision the Dark Lord was inevitably unaware he currently shared with his Horcrux. There was no choice in the matter; Harry was forced to see through the eyes of a monster—worse still, he feared that he was the monster. Something told him to resist, but Harry suddenly felt pressed into the scene he viewed.

_“Where is he?” demanded Harry, his voice high and cold, and frightening. It vibrated around the ballroom, a show of his marvelous power. Lucius Malfoy cringed below him, pathetic._

_It would seem he had only lowly worms serving him. Worms and worthless carcasses who rested on the laurels of_ his _successes, but did none of the work he asked of them._

_How…disappointing._

_Bellatrix watched off to the side, poorly hiding her glee in seeing her Master work._

_She had no idea what was coming for her. He would get to her punishment…he would show her…_ now _._

 _A flash of red and Lucius cowered further into the floor of his drawing room, the utter_ fool—

_Harry saw red tinge the outskirts of his vision as Bellatrix thrashed and screamed after a few moments. He smirked._

_It was not his full power, it never was; to use his entire, merciless rage would destroy them within seconds. They knew him to be capable; he was merciful in doling their punishments._

_They deserved this pain, and any punishment he bestowed. They had_ failed _him_.

_No one failed Lord Voldemort without consequence._

_“Do you not serve me?” he rasped in his cruel, mocking tone. They deserved no mercy at the moment. He could feel it building behind the dam, his furious wrath waiting to be unleashed._ _“Perhaps you have grown tired of your Master, of our cause. Could it be, that you have thought to turn against me, to seek your hour of independence now that we have achieved a taste of what we have sought for so long_ _?” he hissed maliciously down at the two of them._

_Bellatrix whimpered in her haste to try to say anything to answer his question, despite being subjected to the worst of his fury as of yet._

_“My Lord, of course, of course, we live to serve you.” Her pleas and adoration disgusted him._

_Despite her passion for bloodlust, she provided no inspiration. It was imperative that his followers not forget their place. There were only orders he gave, and orders they fulfilled. All else, they could not provide. They were not_ equals, _not in any sense._

_A thrill of vicious hatred exploded through his body at that thought. Red crept into his vision again._

_Keep them fearful to the point of death. Be their protector only if they served him well. That was the line for his Inner Circle._

_Yet, if they could not handle their punishment, perhaps their worth needed to be…reevaluated._

_“My Lord,” whispered Lucius, and he kept his eyes averted as he cringed ever lower, “We have scouts at all of the boy’s previously known hideouts, and at all partners of the Order. Greyback has enlisted his pack on the boy’s scent. He will be found.”_

_Harry felt his mouth twist into a snarl._

_“Your sniveling does nothing to appease me, nor convince me of your personal commitment to the effort I have assigned to you…_ _Lucius.”_ _The Malfoy patriarch sank further into the floor, as through he cringed from his very name being spoken in his Master_ _’s leering hiss. As though it might be the last sound he ever heard. His long blonde hair fanned messily around him, in contrast to the dark wood of the floor. Lucius crept closer to kiss the hem of Harry_ _’s robe. In response, Harry flung a curse with a twitch of his wand, blasting Lucius across the floor to slam into Bellatrix._

_They were weak. Mortal. Breakable. They were only flesh and blood, with no contingency for their own shortcomings._

_He hated their weakness. He needed less breakable, less disposable members in his ranks. How could they serve him, if they could not even stand before him, and gratefully accept what he generously gave?_

_The Elder Wand rose in his hand to point at the two of them, a curse on his lips, and the conduit pulsed to obey. It was the only thing that would not fail him today._

Harry’s consciousness jolted, and Voldemort noticed, in a way he never had before.

_The Elder Wand stayed directed through the air, but the curse died on his breath._

Harry suddenly felt himself released from where he had been trapped to the side of Voldemort’s mind. Darkness began to encroach on him, and he had to find a way out. _Now._

Harry tugged at his consciousness, and begged his terror to wake him, to extract him from the vision he had accidentally slipped into. The dark tendrils converged on him, pulled him towards a web, a maze he would never escape from. The shadows searched blindly through his subconscious, but ravenously, in their attempt to capture his mind.

Closer and closer they delved and twisted, feeling for him, hoping to trap and encase Harry. He felt them all around as he clawed toward an opening in his consciousness. He tried to shake himself in the physical world.

_“_ _POTTER.”_

The Parseltongue struck him through, as though it exacted where it would affect Harry the most.

He must resist.

Harry latched onto a glimmer of wakefulness to draw him away from Voldemort’s mind, to deposit himself safely into his own.

He _must_ resist.

Harry freed himself from that syrupy sensation closing in and ran full tilt, but his legs led nowhere; he only sprinted in place. His feet moved but he felt farther from safety. It was all wrong. He was the trapped fly in the web, unable to see the spider’s approach.

His limbs pumped wildly, and did their damnedest to propel him forward.

_He must resi—_

Something grazed his back, like a grab of fingers along his shirt, and Harry automatically, reflexively turned around to see what had nearly taken hold of him. A giant pair of slitted, red eyes flashed at him—furious, and fear inducing.

Harry jerked against the rough tree bark, his sit bones sore and stiff from sitting on the hard ground for so long. His eyes were wide, frozen in place as he made sure that he was alone in his mind. His heart thumped rapidly in his chest, but returned to normal the longer he stared at the ground. He breathed steadily, and felt numb and dazed.

His scar was throbbing. Harry didn’t think that that would stop anytime soon. He had the feeling that he had just seriously dodged a bullet with the Dark Lord.

What he wouldn’t give to sleep for real, and to not worry about accidentally slipping into Voldemort’s mind. Or worse, to be the man while he tortured his followers.

A tree branch snapped behind him, and the movement of leaves made Harry’s heart hammer. Had Voldemort somehow followed him out of the dream? Had that flash of his eyes allowed him to pinpoint where Harry sat?

No, that was impossible.

Well, all magic was impossible, but here he was…a wizard.

Harry leaned around the tree and came nearly face to face with a doe.

A real one, about two yards away. Her ears twitched, and glossy, black eyes seemed to stare right into Harry’s own.

Could animals see through the Cloak? Harry had never given much thought to it, beside the cases when he came across Mrs. Norris back at Hogwarts.

The doe remained frozen as Harry further glanced around, but the two of them seemed to be alone. Harry’s heart calmed a little, but the excitement had left him a bit lightheaded.

The doe stepped closer, and closer still. She snuffled the ground as she went, foraging. Harry suddenly realized that she might have smelled his stash of bananas. He slit another open with his fingernail and tossed a piece to her.

He chewed slowly through his half of the fruit, tossing bits to her as he went. The doe seemed unperturbed by the brief flashes of his disembodied hand.

She was next to him now, and smelled of the forest and wet animal. Harry admired her, though, as he had never seen a real doe up close before.

Strange, to be seated so close to such a large, peaceful creature, and see the unassuming power in the build, potential for wild destruction in every course hair.

The doe froze again, tense and alert. Harry did, too.

A bright light cast over the area, of noticeable higher intensity than the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. Like a spotlight, it shone over his tree as Harry squinted into it, and tried to decipher who was there.

In his periphery, he saw the doe’s tail twitch, and with an abrupt flurry of movement that chucked dirt and leaves up behind her hooves, she turned and flew back into the forest in a mad dash away from the potential danger.

She loped a fair stretch, and paused deep in some bushes to stare back at the disturber.

“Just a deer, then,” a voice muttered gruffly. “ _Nox._ ” The light went out, and Harry now saw the Death Eater who had replaced Goyle, where they stood at the edge of the tree line.

Harry listened to the their retreat back to the Burrow’s front gate. He carefully shifted back around to see the doe, but she was gone, camouflaged somewhere in the denser vegetation.

A little chilled now, he settled back against the tree, and absently rubbed his arms.

Times like these brought out the philosopher in him. That, and Harry currently felt attached to anything that would distract him from the scare of Voldemort coming to find him.

He folded his arms around his middle and held himself, like he was holding his whole being together in that moment.

That a doe should find him here... It was a stupid thought, one that he would never admit out loud, but seeing the creature felt like his mother still watched over him.

Deer seemed to always find him in the forest when he needed it. Between Snape’s Patronus and his mother’s, and even the stag Patronus he shared with his father, Harry wondered where it all came from.

He had time before the sun went down to think, so he let his mind wander, partly to take his mind off of his still-stinging scar, a sign that Voldemort was probably torturing his Death Eaters again or looking for a way to consciously reopen the connection between Harry’s mind and his own.

Harry reached up and itched his scar, but it unfortunately only brought minimal relief.

Whether a Patronus was emotional only, or intrinsically linked to something inside of a person, the result was a magic both gentle and bursting with energy and life. It was protection, from the depths of innate self preservation.

Harry found Patronus forms to be some of the most interesting answers to a person’s true personality. Which was why, after seeing a real doe only minutes previously, Harry supposed it made sense with both Snape and what he knew about his mother.

Deer had an unpredictable, curious nature which drew them out into dangerous territory. His mother loved him unconditionally, enough to not stand aside when confronted with Voldemort. She chose to end her life in a defiant way, with unpredictable consequences for everyone else.

Then there was Snape, with his constant slow movements, the creep towards attempted success over the Dark Lord as a spy. As Snape inched closer, Voldemort assumed he was free of danger. It was always at the last moment that Snape would jump in the way—despite how it had always seemed. What Harry had viewed in the man’s memories showed someone reborn to repentance. A dark, grudging guardian angel. A sad life half dedicated to remorse...and to revenge.

Snape was unpredictable in his mind; he had to be to successfully act as a double agent against the Dark Lord. In retrospect, Harry could see just how clearly Snape had been a private, watchful person.

Harry wondered if his mother had been like that.

Maybe she had been—maybe it was just that their lives were so intertwined from childhood, there had been no choice in their deepest protections, in their happiest memories. Perhaps they were always destined to embody the doe.

Then there was James, the stag. Proud to stand up and be noticed time and again, not for arrogance sake—not always—but with the same quick unpredictability as the doe.

A buck was a lure, a prize to any hunter. It drew attention to itself with its antlers on display. In bringing the notice on itself, through inherent distraction, others would survive—and hadn’t it been James who had yelled for Lily to take Harry and run, to give those he loved the precious seconds to get to safety? James had tried to be the first line of defense for his family.

Harry had tried to do the same, of course. He had tried to stand between his friends and the Dark Lord at the Battle’s interim, to answer his call and put an end to the bloodshed.

Maybe everyone could be that connected to their core sense of self potential, and their truest form of character, even if they never fully realized how or why.

Harry shifted and tried to keep his foot elevated. It was getting more difficult to ignore how fucked his body was. He picked at his hand, which was dirty and had already started to scab.

He wished he had his wand to deal with his injuries. The few healing spells he knew would still be better than nothing.

The first attempt at wandless Episkey was unfortunately so pathetic that it did absolutely nothing. In the second attempt, Harry forced his magic into his hands, and tried to will the skin closed, but the dirty red line along his palm remained unchanged.

After his third attempt, in which his hands started to feel uncomfortably warm with the magic that had not found an outlet, he decided that his failing lay in a deficit of knowledge about the Magical theory behind healing, more than his inability to move magic through his body.

It appeared that his ability to wandlessly perform unlocking spells did not indicate a universal proficiency at wandless magic as a whole. With _Alohomora,_ Harry knew exactly what he wanted his magic to do, and how a lock worked, having broken into the cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive more than a few times to retrieve his school things. Healing was something where he knew the result, but not the intricacies of how to fix his body.

It made sense, it was just disappointing, and at the moment, terribly inconvenient.

He sighed, and tried unsuccessfully to ignore his injuries.

The Burrow remained quiet throughout the rest of the day. Harry saw no activity in Ron’s window, nor did any of the Weasleys appear outside at any point. His stomach rumbled. As Harry suspected, the bananas and bread had been good for the morning and early afternoon, but they did not tide him over for long.

As the sun began its descent, dipping below the trees and casting a golden-green glow around the woods, Harry felt he had observed enough.

Harry stood gingerly, kept pressure on his good leg, and stretched under the Cloak. He tossed the banana peels a fair distance into the trees, to not draw any unwanted attention to where he had been should anyone come searching. When he glanced up, his heart gave a thrill. Ron’s window was illuminated.

Harry was exhausted, but seeing the light in Ron’s window was the indication that he should move. He was just so close to seeing his friend again, no matter what happened, or how Ron felt about what had happened after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry was here now, and he had the chance to explain.

All of the pain getting here would be worth it, if he could just get to that window.

He crept to the edge of the forest and peered out. The sun had made a rapid descent and darkness was enclosing the front yard just as quickly. The hulking shadow of the Burrow helped with that.

Harry eyed the guard, who sat very near the Weasleys’ broom shed. It didn’t take him long to start debating how he could get a broom out of the shed without the Death Eater noticing. It seemed impossible with the guard’s proximity and angle, since the shed door was practically across from where they sat.

Harry hadn’t watched for long, when the Death Eater checked their pocket watch, stood, and without further preamble, Apparated away.

Harry waited. He counted to ten.

_No way._

No guard Apparated to replace the one who had just left. Harry held serious doubts that his luck had changed, and more valued how disinterested the Death Eaters seemed to be in their guard duty.

Oh, Voldemort was going to be so pissed if he ever found out about this.

Not about to waste his opportunity, Harry snuck through the darkness to the shed.

Thankfully it was unlocked. He slipped the lock off, and inside—bless the Weasleys—were three Cleansweeps.

Harry tried not to think too hard that the last time he had been in this shed, he had been with Dumbledore, who had asked to meet with him for special lessons during his sixth year—lessons where Harry would learn the origins of Tom Riddle and his Horcruxes.

Swallowing back his old memories, he grabbed a broom and slipped the lock back on the shed.

He crept around the back of the house, reminding himself over and over to have caution. As he heard the telltale _crack_ of Apparition—presumably the new guard coming for the night shift watch over the Burrow—he was thankful that he had been mindful.

Harry’s curiosity lighted for the briefest of moments on who the newcomer was.

Once more beneath Ron’s window, he looked up at the yellow square of light. His heart thudded with anticipation.

He had made it. He really had.

Mounting the broom, he kicked off the ground gently and ascended slowly to the window. Thankfully his slow movements kept him quiet. The crickets had begun their chatter, but weren’t loud enough to cover any carrying sounds on his part.

The hall light was on, Harry could see though the open bedroom window. Ron was nowhere in sight, unfortunately. Harry tried not to be too disappointed.

His friend was definitely in the house, just not currently in his room. The chill of the night air was making itself known up where he was. He hadn’t donned the Cloak over him when he mounted the broom, and regretted that now.

Gently, he tapped on the glass, and looked around, barely seeing the front gate from this height. The guard looked like they faced the other way, but through the darkness it was difficult to be sure. He floated closer to the roof.

He waited, but Ron didn’t come.

With a sinking feeling, Harry began to worry that maybe Ron wasn’t in the house after all. Harry tried to push on the window, but couldn’t get a grip on it from his angle on the broom.

The frogs croaked and crickets chirped, their nighttime melodies humming through the surrounding trees. He heard someone clear their throat loudly; probably the Death Eater sat at the gate.

By now, Harry had gone stiff from sitting on the broom. As he tried to warm his hands, the tiredness had slowly returned, as has the throb in his scar.

He squeezed his thighs together around the broom and breathed lightly on his hands, drawing them up under his armpits. The regrets of not throwing the Invisibility Cloak over himself before he came up, both for warmth and for hiding, strengthened. The chance of anyone looking up was slim, but he refused to return to the ground just in case the Death Eater came around the side of the house.

The hall light flipped off and Ron appeared.

What a sight for sore eyes he was, too. Harry’s eyes very nearly teared up at the sight of his friend alive and well. Trying very hard not to startle him, he leant forward and tapped lightly on the glass.

Ron screamed, and Harry cursed, very nearly tumbling from the broom as he frantically waved at him to calm down.

Eyes wide in disbelief, and now incredibly pale, Ron hurried to the window.

The paint was practically glued to the wood, but with a tremendous heave and a terrible unsticking noise, Ron managed to heft the tiny window open.

Harry meant to drift slowly in, but the broom knocked against the house as Ron helped to pull him through. He tumbled through at an awkward angle into Ron’s arms. Ron immediately tightened his hold around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him upright and into a hug.

Harry’s leg protested, but he forced himself not to care. For everything had been worth it, to be here, now.

The racket the window made did not go unnoticed, and Harry heard a banging knock at the downstairs door. Ron released him, now red in the face, and they gave each other a look.

“Quick, under the Cloak, Harry! Blimey, it is really you, Harry, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, extracting the Cloak out from under the broomstick, and shaking it out in front of him.

He had just swung the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders when the door banged open and Harry jumped, while Ron let out a little yelp of surprise.

Ginny stood in the doorway—fiery, radiant, and in her nightclothes.

She gave him a long look, and Harry felt like his heart may just give out looking into those brown eyes. He couldn’t swallow, he had damn near forgotten how to breathe, and his adrenaline pumped harder than should be allowed.

Ron looked between the two of them as Ginny closed the door behind her.

When she turned around again, she spoke like he owed her an explanation, which of course, he did.

“Hello, you. Nice of you to finally show up.”

“Later,” Ron ushered, and gestured for Harry to finish putting the Cloak on.

“Er, right,” said Harry sheepishly, still looking at Ginny. She watched him hawkishly as he disappeared.

There was the slow march of heavy boots on the wooden steps.

“I insist you leave this house this instant! And if you so much as _touch a hair_ on either of my children’s heads, I will have yours!” Mrs. Weasley sounded frantic, and angry.

“Easy, lady,” came the easy voice of a man far too comfortable in the stairwell of someone else’s home. “If you’ve nothing to hide, I’ve nothing to find.”

Harry moved to the far corner of the bedroom, stepping in the space between the end of the cot and the side of the desk, and crouched down.

There were two polite knocks heard and a door down the hall from them opened, and then shut. There was another two knocks, presumably another door opened, and then shut. The Death Eater seemed to be systematically checking all of the upper rooms.

As this pattern continued, Ron looked nervously at Ginny. She was still staring at the spot where Harry had disappeared. Ron nudged her, and she glared at the door just before the anticipated knocks sounded.

Ron’s bedroom door swung open, and Harry was surprised to recognize the man.

Dark hair and stubble, medium build, and a serious expression, Antonin Dolohov stood in the doorway, and appraised the cramped room at large before his eyes lighted on Ginny and Ron sat side-by-side on the bed.

“You must be the children.” He said it in what probably was meant to be, at best, kind, and, at worst, condescending, but it was offset by his leer.

Ginny returned it with the filthiest glare Harry had every seen her features take on. “You must be the troll who has volunteered to sit on your useless arse outside our house and watch the grass grow.”

 _Oh, Ginny._ Harry bit his lip in worry for her. He itched to have a wand.

Ron turned a sickly pale color as Dolohov took a slow step forward.

“The things I could do to you, girl, you can’t even begin to imagine,” he growled out, leaning down toward where she sat on the bed.

“But you won’t,” Ginny countered, her eyes narrowed.

Dolohov huffed a laugh as he straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back.

“You’re right,” he said, and casually roamed the small space, touching the walls, until he finally made it to the window, eying the white chips of paint that had been knocked loose. “If we were alone, it would be a _far_ different story.”

Harry felt his blood boil at that, and Ron’s eyes were also narrowed at Dolohov, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Dolohov kicked the broom out of the way as he bent down and picked up a paint chip, and then looked out of the open window above him.

“You two the only ones up here?” he asked as he rubbed the paint chip between his fingertips and continued to stare out the window.

Ginny just looked at him, and Ron finally mumbled, “Yeah. Fancied some fresh air, it gets warm up here. Window was practically sealed shut, though.”

Dolohov chuckled to himself.

“For the record, I don’t believe you scumbags.” He said it with a light air, but the threat in his tone was barely veiled. “If I find out proof you’re lying...Well, then, it’s not really me you’ll be answering to.”

Ginny rolled her eyes.

“That in lack of a spine, are you?” she sneered. “Need your _Master_ to fight your battles for you?”

Dolohov said nothing, though his face darkened. He stood and walked to stand over the two of them. Ron had turned a pale color, but looked ready to reach for his wand. The Death Eater flicked the paint chip at Ginny’s face.

She nearly dove up at Dolohov, but Ron caught her and pulled her back down next to him.

Dolohov raised his eyebrows at her, fully smirking now; Ginny’s cheeks were reddened slightly by anger, and her fists were curled. He looked her up and down.

“You know, you’re making it really hard for me to not break my agreement with your mother,” he said dryly.

“Better run along then, before you do,” she snarled up at him. “Or stick around. Bets all in, I can kick your arse.”

He just scoffed and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and gave a parting wink, “I look forward to it. Maybe next time.”

His footsteps trod heavily down the stairs, as slowly as before.

The three teenagers listened through the open door until his slow pace paused at the bottom of the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley’s voice came first.

“Find anything interesting?” From her tone alone, Harry vividly envisioned Mrs. Weasley’s furious expression most would cower under.

There was a pause, before Dolohov countered her, seemingly unbothered.

“More than I thought I would. You have beautiful children.”

From the silence that followed, Harry could only assume that Mrs. Weasley was livid to the point of speechlessness.

“Cheers,” Dolohov said, far too cheekily for his gruff voice. They heard the kitchen door close.

“What an arse,” Ginny muttered with an eye roll, as she moved off of the bed to shut the door.

“You shouldn’t have been egging him on like that, Ginny.” Ron had recovered his voice and now chastised his sister. Harry decided the coast was clear and stepped out of his corner, removing the Cloak.

Ginny was fired up. “He shouldn’t have even come in here! Merlin’s saggy balls, I may not know what his orders are, but I don’t think that they include rummaging around our house!”

“Actually, I think that that’s exactly what You-Know-Who would want,” Ron responded. “Just needed any excuse to come in here and search for anyone to rough up. I think that that’s the last thing we need.”

“Oh, yes, Ron. You make all the decisions about what this family needs.” Her eyes narrowed.

Harry didn’t know if he wanted to understand what that meant. Ron glared at her, quickly turning a dark shade of red.

As Ron opened his mouth to respond, there came a sharp rap on the door, and Harry instinctively fumbled to throw the Cloak over himself as his two friends looked worriedly to him.

The door opened, and there stood Mrs. Weasley.

Harry had been right. She looked livid.

“What is the matter with the two of you? What are you doing up here?” The Weasley matriarch demanded.

Harry saved the two from answering as he slid the Cloak off of his head again, and now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She probably didn’t.

Her hand flew to her mouth, and Harry worried that she might be angry with him, might tell him to leave. A sob shuddered through her, the noise escaping the sides of her hand.

“Harry!” She exclaimed in a hushed shout. “Dear, you—”

Her voice seemed to fail her.

“Erm, yeah.” He resisted rubbing the back of his head as he flooded with relief. The conversation had not started out with why he was there, or for what reason. Mrs. Weasley seemed genuinely distraught to see him, as tears began to now roll down her plumped cheeks, but not with accusations, but with her own tremendous relief.

They both seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

“I was wondering how we would tell her you were still kicking,” said Ron as Mrs. Weasley strode towards Harry.

Harry made one half limp toward her before her was pulled into a hug, as soft and motherly as he remembered. He wondered in that moment how he ever had worried that the Weasleys would be upset with him. He was really here, at the Burrow with them, and that was what mattered.

Ginny grinned behind her mother’s shoulder, tears in her own eyes.

“She cries so easily at everything,” chided Ginny quietly, wiping her own eyes. Ron gave Harry a small smile as his mother continued to bury Harry’s slight frame with her own.

His heart swelled, immeasurably. Here, with people who loved him, he was certain it was the greatest feeling in the world.

His scar, though quiet for a short span of time, sparked to life and began to throb considerably.

Mrs. Weasley pulled back, and lifted the apron she wore to dab at her eyes.

“Still a bit peaky, Harry,” she gave a watery chuckle as she grabbed his face between her palms.

At the following offer of food, Harry wanted to say no, feeling that being here was enough, but Ginny interceded.

“I’m sure he’s starving, Mum.” Ginny gave Harry a look as Mrs. Weasley listed off some things she would start cooking and bring them up in case there would be any more unwarranted visits from their watchdog outside. She said the last part with an edge of malice.

The door shut behind her.

“She’s not too pleased with the arrangement,” Ginny said. Harry turned to her, a question in his eyes. “She’s pleased as punch to see you, obviously, we all are. But,” she nodded to the window, “that the Ministry went and divulged where our house was, and sent ward breakers here to allow Death Eaters in, has been driving her mad over the past day. It really does seem that there’s no one we can really trust—even more so than before.”

Ginny eyed Harry. “It’s because of you, isn’t it? We couldn’t be sure, none of us really dared to—” She stopped short and swallowed.

“I know,” Harry just returned.

“You two don’t have to stop on account of me, you know,” Ron said into the new silence. Harry looked to his best friend, whose face was quite red and appeared far more uncomfortable than his words would indicate.

Harry shuffled on his good foot, not knowing what to do exactly, when a rush of red hair breezed forward, and Ginny Weasley was in his arms at last.

Automatically, his eyes closed and he breathed in her scent—as flowery and pleasant as he remembered.

“I missed you,” she whispered into his neck, and hugged him hard against her. His heart gave a lurch, countered by the twinge in his scar.

“Me too,” he managed. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” She probably wouldn’t. Maybe one day he would get the words out.

“Let the man sit, Ginny,” Ron said weakly, but clearly trying to be supportive of the two of them. She reluctantly pulled back, and Harry felt slightly dazed, like this couldn’t be real.

Harry moved to the bed, and only then remembered how terrible his foot felt. He hissed despite himself.

“What happened?” Ginny asked, sat next to him.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, now sitting on the cot he had moved to be situated next to the bed. “Where have you been?”

Harry had expected this, the questions. He had thought about it half of the day, what he would say. The hardest part was where to start, and how much to say.

“Before you start, give me your hand,” Ginny said firmly. Harry gave his cut hand over to her.

 _“Episkey,”_ she said, with a wave of her wand over his hand, and Harry watched as the skin knit together.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully.

“How’d you hurt your foot?” she asked.

“Escaping. Fell down a bank in the woods.”

“What are you saying, mate—” Ron started. “You _ran_ all the way here?”

“No, but I hitched a ride with your dad—Actually, I would rather just start from the beginning,” said Harry, before he gestured to his foot. “Does your mum have any pain potions that could fix this? It twinges a bit.” Ginny nodded.

“I can try to fix it up first. I got really good at medical spells over the last school year. Do you know if it’s broken?”

“I think it might be, or the worst sprain I’ve ever had.” Harry winced as he gingerly rolled up his pant leg again.

“Ouch, mate.” Ron grimaced in sympathy as he looked over the swelling. “Still, can’t be worse than growing all your bones back after that git Lockhart Vanished them all.”

“Yeah, well at least I didn’t have to spend a day extensively using my arm when that happened. Madam Pomfrey just grew them back. I feel like hiking on this made it way worse.”

Ron nodded at that.

“Hold still. This will probably hurt,” instructed Ginny, and was about to wave her wand over the swelling, when she turned to him. “Actually, I’ll get the pain potion now, and then you won’t have to sit through it.” Harry stalled her with a hand on her arm.

“I’ll be fine. Just do it.”

It wasn’t that bad. Ginny went slowly through the healing process—apparently she found there was a small fracture, but mostly a severe sprain—and then raided the Weasleys' potions stock for a pain remedy. Harry secretly hoped that it would numb the blasted pain shooting through his head. His scar had been on fire for a while now, since Dolohov had gone, but Harry didn’t think that Voldemort had any indication of where he was at the moment.

Once the three of them were settled in their places on the cot and the bed again, Harry told them everything—from Snape’s memories he saw in the Pensieve, and how he left to sacrifice himself to destroy the Horcrux inside of himself, and when Voldemort confronted him in the Forest, how he had doubted Harry’s willingness to surrender to him.

Ron turned green when Harry said he was a Horcrux, and Ginny gave him a long look. He had expected more questions on it, but he pushed on.

He described the room he had been trapped in, and the scenery he could see from where he was—both Ron and Ginny agreed that the manor could have been anywhere.

Well, he told them almost everything. He relayed the brief conversations he had had with Voldemort—but left out any time the Dark wizard had touched him and the nightmares that he had had every night.

He edited out any indication of how much he loathed himself throughout the ordeal—how the guilt still weighed on him, even as he sat with people who cared for him. He had a feeling that they would try to understand, or worse, attempt to convince him to shed the guilt that still weighed on him. They would tell him that they cared deeply for him despite it all, and he didn’t want them to feel they had to do that. They had lost their family, too, after all.

It was a lot to take in, but Ginny took everything he had to say in stride, and Ron was mostly quiet throughout, though very pale as Harry got to the events of the previous night.

Ron cringed as Harry described the need to slice his hand open multiple times to trick the wards.

“Bloody hell, Harry. To escape from You-Know-Who like that,” Ron said as he shook his head in awe. “Mad. Wicked, but absolutely mad.”

Harry then went off about how the reason he had to escape was because Hermione was in danger and he needed someone to get in contact with her.

“Where is she, anyway?” he asked, suddenly feeling very bereft that she wasn’t here, and that Ron hadn’t mentioned her yet.

Ginny and Ron shared a look.

“What?” asked Harry, feeling distinctly lost.

“‘Mione, she-she’s doing okay,” Ron said slowly. “She isn’t really communicating with us at the moment, but she’s doing a lot of legwork.”

“Legwork?” Harry prompted.

“That’s what she says. You know her,” Ron shrugged in what he probably meant to be a lighthearted way, but it made Harry’s instincts twinge.

“No one can find her,” continued Ron. “She’s found ways to communicate with me, but it’s been a different way every time. She’s being really careful and has something planned, but shes keeping it under wraps.” Ron shrugged again, but his face gave him away. He was worried.

“Nothing else? She’s just mobilizing on her own?” Harry frowned.

Ginny rubbed his arm, and insisted, “She will be alright.”

She turned to her brother, who looked more troubled by the moment as he seemed to process that Voldemort had expressed specific interest in Hermione.

“She will be, Ron.” Ginny’s tone was firm, enough so that Ron seemed to shake himself out of whatever dark thoughts he had begun to route down.

Harry asked about Voldemort offering pardons for those who laid down their arms against him after the Battle. He was surprised to find that this was mostly true.

Ron was the one who explained.

“Dad’s been going to the Ministry constantly. They tell him he’s going to get the sack any day, but then they work him like he needs to run half of the menial work at the Ministry, it’s mad.” Ginny nodded along as Ron continued. “Something to do with Pure-blood propaganda, no doubt. That’s the thing, though. They have been registering Muggle-borns like normal, but not many are going to Azkaban anymore. It’s like the Battle of Hogwarts was our last stand and the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who have just decided to ignore any dissonance except by monitoring people. The guard was new as of last night, but I guess now we know why.”

Harry nodded. Right, so Voldemort had apparently been hiding Harry from the world, after all. Until last night.

“It’s been strange,” Ginny supplied. “We returned home, held a memorial for Fred, and then life returned much as it had over the last two years. Miserable, but not like we are fighting for our lives. It’s just like they decided that they won, and have been acting the part. Everyone just seems to accept it.”

At Harry’s puzzled look, she amended, “Obviously, we still stand against him, and what he’s done, but it seems like all of our efforts are constantly being brushed aside, or they are keeping us so busy that we can’t do much more than continue as if life is normal.”

“Everyone’s pretty depressed, but they are making do I guess,” Ron said grudgingly.

“Why can’t we fight?” Harry asked. “Raise another stand against them?”

Ginny looked at him sadly. “You were gone, everyone kind of...well, some of our side kind of retreated from the castle when Bellatrix and the others marched down from the Forbidden Forest and declared that you had been—well, that you had gone to the Forest and you were gone from here on in. We didn’t want to believe it.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ginny put her hand over his thigh, reassuringly.

“We didn’t give up or ever think the worst of you, of course! It seemed so off. Those of us who remained I think were all of the same mind—that we would rather die, especially because of what we had already lost. Even Neville, he,” she paused and bit her lip. Ron jumped in.

“Neville was way out of line. It was sort of awesome. He walked right up to Bellatrix and almost landed one right in her face before she realized what was happening.” Ron grinned, but it faded quickly. He swallowed. “It got bad quick, though.”

“What happened?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Well, _he_ showed up,” Ginny said gravely. “He must have just finished with you, from what you said.”

“They Accio’d the Sorting Hat and he lit it on fire over Neville’s head.”

“He did _what?”_ Harry exclaimed. Ron just nodded gravely.

“We thought he was a goner,” said Ron. “Some of the Order moved him out to St. Mungo’s. He was in rough shape.”

“But Pomfrey is an excellent mediwitch, and had potions on hand to keep him stable until then. Burns are no problem, but that fire...I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ginny shook her head sadly. Harry had a feeling he had seen a version of that fire the previous night.

He sat back on his hands, feeling the effects of the pain potion slowly relaxing him, even through this tense conversation.

“Why do that, though? What was the point in that? I thought V—” Harry stopped himself, and took a breath. “I thought that he liked the idea of Magical unity.”

“Well, Neville may be a Pure-blood, but he was saying some fighting words before all that. You-Know-Who had no choice but to make him an example,” Ron said darkly.

“What did he say?” Harry was very curious as to what Neville had done to piss the Dark Lord off so much in his moment of victory.

“Something about joining him when hell froze over,” Ginny grinned. Harry felt proud that Neville had stood up for what was right—he always was the unlikely hero type.

“He’ll make it through, though,” grunted Ron. “That’s what Dad’s heard through the Ministry grapevine. That it will be a full recovery, with minimal scarring.”

Though this news should be somewhat positive, they all got quiet, sobered by what a moment of passionate protest had cost their friend. Harry already felt the knowledge that Neville wouldn’t hold regrets for his actions; after all, he had stood up to the Carrows all through his seventh year.

Yeah, Harry was proud of his friend.

He suddenly felt the need to admit what he had been feeling all throughout this long day.

“It’s really great to see you both. It was—tough.” He immediately regretted what he said, knowing that they had lost and grieved a brother during this time.

He wrestled for a moment on how to apologize, when Ginny linked her hand through his, and pulled him closer to her.

Ron spoke up. “Glad you’re alright, Harry. Seriously, mate. We were all bent out of shape when You-Know-Who had said you had—well, that you had gone off to him and weren't a concern anymore, then wouldn't say more, except that you wouldn't be coming back. Not that we believed the last part, but we couldn’t understand how you could go to him, after everything.”

Harry looked down at Ginny’s hand in his. “I know,” he spoke quietly, afraid to say anything more.

Mrs. Weasley returned then, with a lot of food floating along on a large platter behind her. The last Harry had recalled seeing this much food in front of him had been for Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

He thanked her profusely, but she just waved off his thanks and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as she left the room again, saying something about Arthur being home soon.

“Mum’s been cooking like this a lot,” Ginny said, as she helped herself to a serving of pudding pie. “We think it’s stress.”

“Definitely stress,” Ron garbled around a mouthful of food.

“Can you be less disgusting?” Ginny critically remarked at her brother.

“I don’t know, can you be less like Mum?” he asked again around the half bite of food he hadn’t swallowed. Harry chuckled for the first time in ages, and itched absently at his scar. Ron noticed.

“Does it hurt?” he inquired, anxious.

“Not right now, the potion’s numbed it, thankfully. It was really bad earlier, though,” Harry finally admitted.

“What do you reckon it means? Is he close?” Ron paled.

“You don’t still get visions from him, do you?” Ginny gasped, and disapproval clouded her face.

In that moment, she reminded him of Hermione. His heart gave a little leaden thud at that, but he pushed it aside, knowing that she was alright, according to what he had been told. At least for now.

“I never have had an aptitude for Occlumency, Gin. Snape was a horrible teacher.” Harry felt the pit in his stomach as he said it, though. It was guilt. He had tried to close his mind, even used his own form of meditation to do so, but to no avail. The best he could do was organize his thoughts into compartments, but they weren’t exactly protected, especially against the skilled attacks that Voldemort used. He started to worry his lip.

“Sorry,” Ginny said. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you weren’t trying.”

That only made Harry feel worse. “No, you’re right,” he said. “I should be doing more. We might have finished this all at the Battle if I had just done a better job of hiding my thoughts, but—”

“But nothing, mate,” Ron said sharply. Harry looked up at him, and his eyes were hard, determined. “We all tried together. It never all came down to you. This was always about all of us, trying to determine the best fate together.”

 _I wish it were that simple_ , thought Harry, but he just nodded. “I guess.”

“Well I know.” His best friend looked at him hard, and Harry felt like his eyes were piercing him through, shaking him to see something he wasn’t.

“Do you think Hermione is out there, doing bloody who knows what, for herself? She’s sacrificing for everyone. We are all still trying to do that.” Ron had lowered his voice, but Harry felt his heart and breathing speed up. He was about to spiral, and he didn’t want to, not in front of his friends.

“Mate,” Ron clapped him on the shoulder, and Harry flinched violently. “Sorry.” Ron pulled back, seeming to realize he had made a mistake. Harry felt himself begin to fall apart, and he wished that he could stop it.

“Harry,” Ginny said softly. Distantly, Harry felt her hand rub circles into his back.

He tried to even out his breaths, but it wasn’t easy. It took many moments for Harry to collect himself again.

When his vision cleared from the near-tunnel vision, he just picked up his fork and picked at the food in front of him. He wasn’t feeling hungry anymore.

“Harry, mate,” Ron started tentatively. Harry tried to look at him. “I was just trying to say that it’s good to have you back.”

Harry froze, and for a long moment, just stared at the tines of the fork, elevated in the air above his plate.

This whole time he hadn’t realized what the off feeling in the back of his mind was. Yet, it had finally made its way to the forefront, and Harry experienced the familiarity of it—the disconnectedness.

It felt so odd to be with them again, as happy as it was. Maybe it was just a side-effect of how long he had been alone.

Ron eventually stood up from the cot, and gathered a few empty dishes.

“I’d better, erm, go take these down to mum,” he muttered awkwardly, the stack of dishware cradled in his hands.

Ginny was probably glaring at her brother, but it wasn’t Ron’s fault.

Everything had been fine, until it wasn’t.

Harry placed the fork he held off to the side of the plate, and picked up his own dish to take down to Mrs. Weasley.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ginny asked, as he, plate in hand, was practically in the doorway. He turned back, and the odd feeling was there, like he was in a sort of daze.

“Going to—” he vaguely gestured to the stairwell.

“Go downstairs, where the Death Eater might see you through the window?” supplied Ginny.

Right. He had forgotten. Maybe the pain potion was messing with his head. Ginny stood and took the plate from him, setting it aside.

“I think you need a good night’s sleep, Harry.” His eyes flicked to her brown ones. They were so sincere.

None of this felt real.

“Maybe,” he murmured. They were now standing face-to-face, and he could tell if he leaned in to kiss her, she would let him. She would allow it, and things could go back to how they were in the brief moments of bliss stolen on the lake’s edge at Hogwarts, just as he had dreamt for many days in that blank room.

He could have it all back.

So what was he waiting for?

Part of him said that they had everything to gain if he just made that final move towards her. Another part of him said that he would be taking everything from her if he did.

Harry stepped back, feeling his face color. As his eyes averted to the floorboards, in his periphery he saw Ginny shift towards him—and he could turn, he could just lean his face towards hers. This was Ginny, someone who loved him, respected him, and knew him for years.

He didn’t move his head from where his eyes were fixed on the floor, and his face felt so red, it had to be noticeable. When she pressed her lips softly to his cheek, she surely felt the scorching heat of his face. Whether she did or not, she pulled away after, and sat on Ron’s bed behind him.

Ron took this moment to reappear in the doorway.

He cleared his throat, clearly aware of the tension in the room, and equally unprepared to handle it.

“I’m, uh, going to go shower. Mum says she will make breakfast in the morning and you should get some rest. She wanted to give you space if you wanted it. I said that it was probably best.” Ron said most of this to a crack in the ceiling, as he seemed incapable of looking at them.

Harry nodded once, before he found his voice.

“Y-yeah, thanks, Ron.”

Ron inhaled. “No problem, I’ll just, uh, leave you to it.” He lightly knocked on the doorway before he made his escape towards the bathroom.

Harry felt Ginny’s gaze on his back, and turned to her.

“Sorry,” he said, as he looked down at her.

She was beautiful, of course, better than he remembered. Why did he feel like it would all fade away if he looked for too long? It was like he both appreciated her so much, but knew it would never be enough.

“What for?” she asked gently. Her hand snaked up his arm, and just held it. Her hand was warm, comforting.

He said nothing, because he wasn’t sure. So he continued to stand in front of her. She gave a light scoff, not mean, just...like she had realized something.

She flipped the covers back, and Harry looked confused, until she pulled him down onto the bed next to her. He had quite forgotten how strong Ginny was.

“In, you.” She said it playfully, but he knew she was serious. After Mrs. Weasley’s cooking, he did feel suddenly quite tired.

He slipped off his shoes, and crawled into the bed. She urged him under more and he wormed over towards the wall. Then he waited, to see what she would do.

She slid in behind him, slotted around his body, and he stiffened a little at the contact.

“Just relax, Harry. I’ve got you.”

He tried to. She slipped an arm over him, and after a few moments of her spooned behind him, his body grew comfortably warmer. Eyelids closed, he focused on the swirls of purplish gray and the body curled against his. He slowly felt the tension leave his body, inch by inch.

When Ron returned, he lightly groaned, and Ginny shushed him. Harry heard Ron move the cot back against the opposite wall, and get settled in for the night.

He heard his friend mutter that they didn’t have to use his bed. It sounded like half-hearted annoyance.

Harry smirked as he felt affection for the Weasleys yet again flood him, but stayed silent.

His wish for Hermione to be here renewed, but she was away on a—knowing her—research-fueled mission that was probably dangerously disruptive to the Dark Lord.

Even through the layers of numbing pain potion, his scar prickled uncomfortably.

If just for tonight, Harry imagined that the four of them could all be together and pretend the world was alright. Just for a night. That would be more than enough.

Those thoughts were better than any potion; it was pain relief for his heart, grief-stricken and isolated for so long.

 _Oh, what a difference a day makes,_ he thought. It was the truth.

As Ginny breathed lightly, her face tucked against the back of his shoulder, her warm arm wrapped protectively around him, and Ron began to snore, Harry dropped to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was even longer than the last chapter, and I am proud of you for making it through, good job.  
> Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.  
> Feel free to comment/criticize/keysmash, because your words give me life, and my heart is truly with everyone who has enjoyed this story with me so far.  
> As always, until the next one, much love to you.


	10. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partly-cloudy, with a high chance of showers.   
> Everyone is very tired, probably because they are always wondering what everyone else is doing all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day to you. I come bearing a new chapter, with all the possibility that can bring.  
> Thank you for reading and sending love for this story. I am forever grateful.  
> Enjoy.

Harry blinked through the darkness, suddenly awake; his scar burned steadily, but he remembered nothing of what he had dreamed. Disoriented, he registered the wall before him, the humidity of the room’s air, and the weight of Ginny’s arm still draped over him. The sounds of night critters bled through the air, and his eyes remained open in the darkness. 

He contemplated getting up for a long while. They couldn’t have slept for long, and he didn’t want to disturb his friends, but each time he closed his eyes again, the pain seemed to grow.

After a long while, in which he stared at the blankness of the wall and wished to know the time, the pain in his forehead proved that it was not dissipating. Harry gently maneuvered the arm off of him, and slowly slipped out of the blanket, the hardwood cold beneath the soles of his feet. 

Through the dark, Ginny groggily questioned where he was going.

“Bathroom,” he whispered, and watched as her form turned over and breathed steadily back into sleep. Ron still snored softly in the cot across the room.

As he crept along the hollow floors of the Burrow, insulated now from the sounds of crickets, there was only the sound of gentle, infrequent snores from the bedroom down the hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley slept. 

Quiet and slow, he opened the bathroom door and shut it with just as much care.

Harry stood a long while in the illumination of the bathroom, and knew he couldn’t return to sleep like this.

He ran the tap and dabbed cool water on the lightning-shaped curse mark, but it was hardly a relief. The headache that grew behind his scar had only became more unmanageable as the minutes passed. He sat on the lid of the toilet and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. 

Merlin, he was tired. 

Worse still, the exhaustion competed with his headache, which made him doubly drained. 

He stared into the shower across from where he sat, and wished he had something to help—anything for a little reprieve. Regretfully, the pain potion that had helped relax him for the few hours of sleep had worn off.

Harry looked up to the mirror above the sink, and could see the hinge of the potion cabinet that opened behind it.

He should wait and ask for it in the morning...but these were dire times.

Within the cabinet was an array of potions, all unlabeled. Fortunately, Ginny had returned the pain potion to the front of the others, and he recognized the half-empty bottle.

He uncorked the top, drank a swallow of the liquid, and returned the bottle to its spot. That should be enough to let him at least sleep through the rest of the night.

He stood in front of the sink and stared off into space until the effects of the potion kicked in, and his scar pulsed less.

As he glanced into the mirror, it was like he hardly recognized himself. Clutched to the edge of the sink, he stared at his green eyes which were rimmed with shadows, visibly exhausted.

Merlin, how much recovery would it take to reverse all of his stress? 

Probably a lot.

He splashed water on his face and dabbed it dry.

As he tip-toed back along the hall to Ron’s room, he felt the ache of his head fade. He slipped back into the bed with Ginny, and she moved aside for him.

He shouldn’t dwell on the weird feelings he was having. It would probably pass. 

In the moment of warmth and comfort, the underlying strange feelings he had were overshadowed, long enough to coast into more dreams he wouldn’t remember.

When his consciousness returned, sunlight streamed over the foot of the bed, and there was the noticeable sensation of his hair being touched. He didn’t stir as the gentle fingers threaded through, but simply laid in awareness. His cheek was pressed into the softness of Ginny’s shoulder as her hand stroked the tips of his hair.

It wasn’t long enough before she shifted, and he reluctantly opened his eyes to hers. Though his eyesight really was awful, she was still beautiful in the glow of morning light. 

Her blurry face smiled as she reached over, and offered him his glasses.

“Thanks,” he murmured, and cleared his throat as he sat up, moving away from her warmth. 

He felt like he couldn’t look at Ginny for long without feeling like he should look away; perhaps, to him, she was just too radiant. Perhaps it was something entirely unnameable.

He hoped it was his imagination that, when she climbed over him to get out of bed, a blush crept into his face.

“Ron brought some clothes out for you, if you want to freshen up for the day. He’s already gone down for breakfast. I’ll bring you up some for when you get out of the shower, if you’d like.”

Harry didn’t answer, caught in a wave of disorientation. 

Right. He wouldn’t be going down to breakfast. It was too risky, understandably so. This was no ordinary summer visit to the Burrow—this was no ordinary summer at all.

At his silence, Ginny just offered him a smile and pointed to the items folded on the rumpled blankets of the cot. He tried to return it, but he felt all out of sorts, and his face barely moved. 

Ginny left for downstairs, and Harry tried not to think of how inept he had become in his responses to social cues.

For one, he had awoken in this bright room, with his friends—that alone was surreal. Additionally, his head buzzed, as if he were tuned to a static frequency, which greatly distracted him. He felt one second too late in all of his reactions, and hoped that that feeling would fade.

Merlin, he was all out of sorts, indeed.

He flipped back the covers and gathered up the towel and other clothes that Ron had laid out for him. There was an orange and green striped shirt folded on top, and he smiled at the familiarity of it. It would be nice to be in some clean clothes, even if it was back to ones that didn’t entirely fit him and belonged to someone else.

The shower was warm and uneventful, the spray more of a high-pressured mist than a pelting rain, and he stumbled out to dry himself off.

When he brushed the soaked strands of hair off of his forehead, his scar tingled in such intensity that his knees buckled.

“What the hell?” he mumbled, as he automatically grabbed hold of the sink for support.

Harry could have sworn that in the hazy humidity of the bathroom, the tingle of his scar had opened up and swallowed him into a space, a vision of something odd, but all he really caught sight of was a grayish-green murk. The next moment, however, he clearly stood in the Weasleys’ bathroom. He was still on his feet, though his heart rate had increased and his breaths had gone shallow. 

That was probably when Harry should have mentioned it. He should have left the bathroom, and just casually mentioned the strangeness he felt to Ron or Ginny, as seemingly insignificant and fleeting as it had been.

He didn’t, though. After all, it could be caused by a trick of the light, a lack of food in his stomach, or a mind full of recent events he would rather not think about.

The peach tones of the room had no indication of the green or gray. Reality was that, the longer he stood stock-still trying to decipher what he had just seen, more water ran down his neck, along his scars, and dripped on the floor.

That’s what Harry rationalized, as he swallowed and stared at the tile that seemed to shift under his feet. He convinced himself that it was just recent events and stress which conjured up visions that he would rather ignore. 

It wasn’t anything to worry about; he could handle a little strangeness. That was hardly anything, especially when stacked against the queue of issues higher on his list of causes for concern.

When Harry left the bathroom, he was in the Ron’s borrowed, slightly oversized, shirt and pants—though they were nowhere near as baggy and ill-fitting in the middle as Dudley’s hand-me-downs. 

He had just closed the door when he paused at the voices that floated up to the top of the stairs.

“Ginevra, that’s the last I want to hear of it!” Mrs. Weasley’s tone was light, but final. Harry decided that he would have to face this awkwardness of the Burrow’s family arguments eventually, as they weren’t exactly uncommon, but as he heard someone ascend the stairs, he made a beeline for Ron’s room. 

When the door opened, he was sat on the bed, pretending to be very interested in the hem of his large shirt.

He relaxed a little when he saw it was Ginny, and not Mrs. Weasley.

“She’s honestly a nightmare,” Ginny complained as she flopped herself onto the bed next to him. “It’s not as though we’re going to do anything scandalous! We were just sleeping in the same room—apparently, that’s a crime now!”

Ah, so that was what had sparked the fight.

Harry just looked at Ginny laid out next to him. Her eyes were closed in anger, as though she were wishing to be someplace else, without a mother to dictate her life. Unsure what the right thing was to say, and with a history of being incorrect in his determinations of how to console the women in his life, he chose to say nothing. 

He understood that Mrs. Weasley would be protective of her youngest daughter, even with him. A strong feeling told him that if he voiced that opinion it would only be met with Ginny’s contempt.

Minutes passed, but she seemed to finish silently fuming, and turned to him with a huff. He gave her a half-smile.

“Well, we can see each other all during the day,” she reassured him. He just nodded his head slowly.

Thankfully, Ron came in not long after that, a half-eaten croissant in his hand. He tossed another one to Harry.

“What’s got Mum in a whirl?” Ron asked as he chewed his own bread, and sat on the cot.

Ginny replied, “She said I can’t sleep with Harry—” Ron snorted at that, “—and she even got mad that we were in the same bed last night. I mean, honestly! As if anything is going to happen, when you’re sleeping right next to us.” Ron made a face at that, and took another large bite out of his croissant.

“You two slept with Hermione in the same tent for a year, and everything was fine!” Ginny went on, crossing her arms. “Nothing happened then.”

At her words, a wicked glimmer entered Ron’s eye. 

“Yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t say nothing,” he said, and dodged a pillow thrown hard in his direction. 

Harry rolled his eyes his eyes at Ron’s sly comment, but they shared a joking smirk.

“Oh, shut it,” snapped Ginny. “It’s not like we are irresponsible kids.”

Ron just shrugged, and continued eating his breakfast. Ginny flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked at Harry—but Harry was in a world of his own. His scar had begun to make itself known again.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” she asked. A spot between her brows crinkled in concern.

“Dunno,” he said absently. He picked part of the croissant off and ate it, suddenly feeling very watched. Ron stared off at the forest outside his window, but Ginny’s gaze bored right into the side of his face. He turned his head and offered her a small smile, but could tell it didn’t come off right. 

She looked about to say something, but seemed to not want to push him so early in the morning. Instead, she leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed a Quidditch magazine from the stack under the bed, and slid from his side to sit against the wall. It became very quiet.

Harry played with his food for a few minutes, and tried to control the sting in his forehead.

“Is that enough?” Ron’s voice cut through.

Harry looked at the half-shredded bread in his hands. “Huh? I mean, yeah—er—What else is there?” 

He asked without much genuine interest, mostly just to fill the new silence that he hated, but Ron started handily listing the many things Mrs. Weasley had apparently made. He seemed happy that Harry had expressed an interest in food.

“Pudding, porridge, more croissants, if you like them, bacon, apple pie, and yogurt, and some fruit,” he ticked off on his fingers. “There might be more, but that’s all I can remember.”

“Can I go down and look?” Harry suddenly itched for something to do.

Ron bit his lip. “Probably best if you just stay here, honestly. We already got a group from the Ministry that came through again.” 

At Harry’s frown, Ron said in a half-joking tone, “It’s You-Know-Who’s world, mate.” 

Ron sighed as he stood and brushed his hands down his jeans. “Seems like no one gets privacy anymore,” he said in a darker tone. 

Harry considered those words, and only half-listened as Ron announced he would get them porridge and bacon.

As he walked out, Harry was suddenly hit with the strangest feeling that he had exchanged one prison for another.

After a few long moments where Harry had lost himself in his head, he felt Ginny prod him in the back.

“Hm?” he turned halfway round from where he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“What’s bothering you, Harry? Does your scar hurt?” It was kind of her to ask, but he felt irritated suddenly.

“Yeah,” he grunted out.

“I can get you more of the potion you took last night,” she offered.

“I already took some when I got up in the night,” he admitted. 

He heard the crinkle of the magazine as Ginny set it aside and slid up next to him.

“You shouldn’t dose yourself, you know.”

His eyes rolled off to the side, and he stared out at the hall. “Well, I felt sleep was a little more important,” he said curtly.

“Hey,” she rose in defense, “I wasn’t judging you. I was just saying that I know how much you can safely take with the max results, having taken that potion most of my life for injuries. It’s Mum’s own recipe.” 

Oh, well that may have explained why he had awoken with a buzzy head.

He guilty turned back to her, and she raised a brow at him.

“Right, sorry. I’m—” he ran a hand through his hair, “I’m just on edge. Like I’m here, but I don’t feel...right.” Ginny’s brow furrowed in response. 

“What can I do?” she asked, and kindness and concern dripped from every word.

He leant forward to put his elbows on his knees, and held his forehead in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he huffed out. Then he chuckled, in an exasperated way. It felt good to admit to someone who cared that he didn’t know what the hell was happening anymore. “Everything’s messed up.”

“Yeah, you’re a Horcrux,” she said, and gave a nervous laugh. He swiveled toward her, and the unease that he had expected last night shaded her face.

“Yeah, well,” he started slowly, “I tried to get rid of it.”

“By turning yourself over to him, you mean?” she said readily. Her knitted brow morphed quickly from the soft lines of concern to the hardened ones of reprimand.

“What would you have had me do then?” snapped Harry, suddenly flooded with anger, the passion that had been missing for so long, bottled up within him. “I had to give myself over! It was the only way, Ginny. You didn’t see what I saw in the Pensieve. You don’t know what everyone worked for since I was nothing but a _kid_.” He was so exasperated. Did she really not understand? 

“I had to make a choice. It was for you, and for Ron and Hermione, and the Order—because I didn’t want to see any of you end up dead, too!”

Ginny swallowed, like she was nervous of what she was going to say next. 

“You don’t owe Dumbledore anything,” she said quietly. “Or any of us, for that matter. You know that right? And you know you could have told us. We could have figured it out, together.”

He immediately disagreed. “You know that that’s not true,” he stated, shaking his head. He felt anger as it bloomed from his stomach, into his chest, and took a strong hold of his heart. “You know it’s not.”

He was certain of what his choices had been, and it wasn’t fair of her to assume that he hadn’t wanted to stay. It wasn’t fair of her to assume that he chose to be the hero, instead of choosing the friends and chosen family he left behind. 

He had warred with the possibility of this very conversation while he had been shut away in that blank room. He couldn’t handle this, not from her.

“We mourned for weeks, Harry. We thought you were dead.” Her voice was almost a whisper. He couldn’t look at her, his stomach was churning, and his skin felt hot all over. 

If he wasn’t understood in this place, then he wasn’t understood anywhere. 

Harry felt like he was falling into a pit, into a deep place he couldn’t scrabble out of.

“You said that last night,” he snapped ruefully. “But now you’re saying it’s different? What’s changed then? You didn’t have to make me feel better, if you didn’t mean it.” His voice shook with the effort to control it. He was being harsh, and deep down he flooded with regret. Harry knew his words mattered to Ginny, and still he couldn’t stem the viciousness that poured out. 

“I may as well have been dead, or not there at all, for all the good it did,” he continued on, “He asked for me to go there, I went. I made a choice, and it went wrong. When I told you what I knew yesterday, why did you pretend to understand, if you didn’t?” 

He was shaking.

“It doesn’t matter,” he hissed. “It didn’t make a difference.” 

The bitterness coated his mouth as he admitted it. They felt like the most honest words he had to give, and it was a horrible, layered truth.

Ginny was silent, and Harry couldn’t look at her—couldn’t look at the anger he might see, or worse, the damage. 

There was a creak on the stairs and Ron appeared holding two bowls, a plate of bacon balanced on his forearm. Harry didn’t look at the expression on his friend’s face as he moved to take the plate and one of the bowls. 

Harry had to move past this discussion; the Battle of Hogwarts had quickly become his least favorite topic, and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

“You two haven’t been all that quiet up here, you know,” Ron said tentatively. 

Harry picked at a piece of bacon, but said nothing. He feared that if he looked at either of them, the pendulum of sickening guilt that rested in his chest would start to swing.

“Ginny,” Ron began, and Harry didn’t need to look up to know that she silenced him with a fierce look.

“Don’t,” she said cuttingly. “Don’t you dare.” The end of her voice broke, and Harry felt the anticipated pendulum of guilt smash into his heart. 

He had lost any appetite before Ron came up. The heat in his stomach and the burn along his skin were chilled by regret.

Ginny left the room, and hid her tears as she went.

“She’ll—” Ron stalled, and Harry couldn’t look at his best friend, couldn’t see whatever was there. “She’ll come around,” finished Ron.

He sank onto the bed next to Harry, and picked up his own piece of bacon.

“You know, Hermione talks about how I don’t have much of a capacity for this sort of thing,” Ron started, and Harry nearly blanched. He did not want Ron to attempt to console him. 

“—and don’t get me wrong, she is totally right, but—” Ron sucked in a breath. “We all cried over you. Just as much as Fred, mate.” 

Harry glanced up. Ron shrugged, but his brows were pinched in, and he fiddled with the bacon in his hand, for want of some sort of distraction.

“It was worse than last winter,” he continued. “When I thought I would never see you or Hermione again. I thought our friendship was over, that I had messed up that bad. It was still okay sometimes, though, because I knew you two were still alive out there.” There was a long pause and Harry swallowed in the silence. 

“We really thought, the whole time—when the Death Eaters and them were walking around saying you were gone—” Ron stopped short and Harry saw him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “We knew, even if it seemed so unreal then, that you might really be gone, gone.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, and Harry could tell Ron was struggling with the words he needed to say, so he waited patiently, and stared at the wall. 

“What I’m trying to get at, mate, is,” Ron sucked in another breath and when he turned completely toward Harry, he met his eyes. Ron’s face had built in redness, but his brown eyes were hard as he boldly brandished the bacon at Harry’s face.

“Don’t scare me like that again.” Ron punctuated his command with a bite of the bacon, as though eating food would help alleviate some of the tension that had settled in the room. Ron’s face was very red as he continued to chew, looking at his food now.

Harry was touched at his best friend’s practical proclamation of emotional suffering. He was, but he also knew that Ron knew that he was a Horcrux. Ron knew what that meant: that for Voldemort to die, he had to, as well.

Harry wanted to say something to that, but also didn’t want to ruin this moment, as he had with Ginny. It felt important to not do that to his friend, who did struggle with this emotional stuff.

Harry ate porridge, and with the budding of a thought, smirked.

“Harry,” Ron, who clearly caught onto his expression, warned, “I swear if you repeat what I said to anyone, or if you give me hell for what I just said, I will—”

Harry burst out laughing. “No, I wouldn’t! Ron, come on, you know I wouldn’t,” he hurriedly amended, though he kept a playful gleam in his eye as he said it. Ron looked like he might take a light swing at him.

“I was just thinking,” explained Harry, before Ron could start getting more worked up, “that this reminded me of the last month. I got warm oatmeal every morning. Better company now, though.” He chuckled as Ron’s face paled for the twentieth time in twenty-four hours.

“That’s not funny, Harry.”

“I think I have to find some humor in it,” Harry said cheerfully. “Else I would probably explode.” He took another bite of the porridge. “Your Mum’s cooking is a thousand times better, though.” 

Ron just shook his head and went on to eat his own. The awkwardness between them faded with each bite.

When they had finished, Harry said quietly into the deadened air, “I should say something to Ginny.”

Ron’s face pinched, as though he didn’t think that that idea had much merit. “Nah, she’ll cool off. We’ve all just been inside for too long. It makes for short fuses.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. 

“Well, Dad’s still working at the Ministry, as are Bill and Percy, but Ginny and I barely finished our education, and they’re rebuilding Hogwarts at the moment. No time to sit exams. Though, I doubt I would pass anything right now.” He shrugged.

“So, what, you all have been cooped inside here?” clarified Harry.

“Yeah, I suppose we have gone to visit George at the shop, and it’s still doing pretty well, but that was around two weeks ago.”

“So you aren’t being kept inside, it’s just—”

“Nowhere to really go,” affirmed Ron. “That, and all Floos are locked to England, only. That’s why we think the Ministry is trying to figure out how to track Magical signatures without the Trace—like bringing it back on people after they are seventeen. We don’t think that they can do that unless they get their hands on you, though. Which might be what they have changed the registration to,” Ron said grimly. “We had to go do that, you know. They measure your wand and you have to perform a simple spell in front of them and they capture it somehow.”

Harry was getting more concerned by every single thing Ron was saying.

“That’s insane.” There was nothing much else to say.

Ron nodded wistfully. “There’s a lot of that going around, lately.”

They sat for a moment, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

“I don’t have a wand at this point, but I think the Elder Wand still belongs to me,” said Harry, suddenly remembering that Ron had believed in his theory of the Deathly Hallows. Sure enough, Ron perked at that.

“Harry, that’s bloody brilliant,” he said, aghast.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t so brilliant when he was torturing me with it. It seems to still work against me, even if I am its Master,” mused Harry.

“Bloody hell,” murmured Ron, and shook his head at him in amazement or horror. Harry couldn’t be certain, nor had the chance to clarify, because Mrs. Weasley appeared then. 

“Ah, Harry, dear, would you like me to wash those clothes you came in? I’m about to start the laundry. You can just pitch yours in with Ron’s.”

Harry nodded and, as he stood from the bed to gather his dirty clothes from the corner, remembered he had the opportunity to show his gratitude for their hospitality. 

“Thank you, by the way, Mrs. Weasley, for the food last night,” he said. “I know it was unexpected.” She just waved his thanks off, and patted his cheek with a warm, soft hand when he approached her with the bundle of garments.

“It’s not any worry, dear. One more under this roof won’t cause any more of a fuss.” She took the clothes from his arms with a smile, and bustled back downstairs.

“She’s always taken a shine to you,” Ron mused, when she had disappeared. “Then again, I guess you’ve always been an easy addition to the family.” 

Harry said nothing to that, though he felt warmth through his arms at Ron’s words.

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing rounds of Wizard’s Chess and chatting about anything mundane, which included reminiscing about their early years of Hogwarts, and how wild all of their adventures had been.

“Absolute bloody rubbish that we should have been allowed to do all that,” Ron chuckled from where he precariously lay upside-down over the edge of the bed. 

Harry agreed with Ron; it _had_ been rubbish how much they had gotten away with over the years. Such was life, he supposed.

Throughout their conversation, he watched as Ron edged over the mattress into different positions in his boredom. Currently, blood filled his face and gravity pulled his red hair to point straight at the floor. 

Long legs still propped over the bed, the mattress assisted him in a half-backbend; it looked uncomfortable, but Ron seemed unbothered with this strange position he had slid into. At least, he continued to talk with a strained tone as blood kept rushing to his head.

Harry’s most fond moments were when Ron was going over how much of a git Snape had been to Gryffindors. Though, in the back of his mind, Harry had a new appreciation for just how much the bat-like man had been up against—and the fact that he taught school on top of it all. 

Yes, it was little wonder that Snape—while still a git—acted as he had.

Harry said nothing of this to Ron, of course, just allowed him to rant and bemoan the Potions Master. He smiled all the while, especially when Ron eventually lost his balance from his half-gymnastic bend and went crashing to the floor.

When Ron groaned about Trelawney, though, Harry had lots of abusive words to contribute.

Ginny came back after a couple of hours and watched them from the bed. She eventually added to the gossip with what others at Hogwarts had thought when Harry Potter and his friends got up to trouble. She was a very expressive storyteller, so Harry thought it was very entertaining to hear his story from the perspective of the rest of the Hogwarts student body, outside of the Golden Trio’s circle of friends.

The three of them had a lot of laughs about that, and the tension from earlier passed. Although still feeling slightly bad, Harry was grateful for the silent forgiveness.

Everything passed semi-normally until dinner, which they had in Ron’s room again.

Ginny brought Harry back to reality, when she asked him if he needed any pain potion for the night. He hadn’t been sure, as his scar had been relatively silent throughout the afternoon. She ultimately made the decision for him, and returned with the bottle.

He drank the amount she instructed, a little less than he had taken previously, and they all went to sleep—Ginny in her room, Ron in his bed, and Harry settled on the cot along the wall. 

It had been a relatively uneventful day, all things considered.

Perhaps that was why, in the life of Harry Potter, things should have been expected to go quite differently, indeed, in the days that followed.

Shapeless, green-hued fog clouded around him, fringed with grey blobs around the edges. Harry felt very trapped in the midst of it all.

There was nothing else, just the fog. Every few moments, the space around him would brighten, and Harry thought he saw blob-like shapes through the mist. There was not time enough to make out the exact form before the dark, green clouds encroached on him again.

The blobs were mysterious and enticed him, but with each flash of bright light that permeated through the thick haze, they seemed to move, as though they were not stationary objects, but living things.

The night continued in this way, as Harry chased shadows in each glaring spark of light. 

When he awoke, static buzzed in his ears, and he felt disoriented again. Harry sighed lightly to himself as he looked out at the overcast sky barely visible from where he lay. It was still dark, though, with no sign of an approaching dawn.

Perhaps it hadn’t been the potion that made him feel so off-kilter the previous morning, since Ginny had given him the appropriate amount tonight.

He stared up at the sloped ceiling and wondered if he should try to go back to sleep. Something in his mind told him to stay awake for a while.

There was a creak on the landing outside the door, and several more, as heavy, patient footfalls descended the stairs.

Harry decided that if he was going to stay awake, he might as well go make conversation with Mr. Weasley, whom he had not seen since their one-sided interaction the other day, when Harry had hitched a ride in his backseat.

He grabbed up his Invisibility Cloak and slipped out of Ron’s door. Years of self-training in stealth had him taking the edge of the steps down, his bare feet silent against the cool wood.

The bottom of the steps left him standing in Weasley’s living room. The oranges and reds of the comfortable decor of the rug and walls were mellow in the firelight that flickered in the grate.

His assumptions had been correct, and Mr. Weasley sat in his armchair, his back to the stairs, as he stared into the fire. 

Harry tip-toed around the chair to sit on the couch opposite the man, doing so slowly so as not to startle him.

Semi-slumped in the chair, Arthur Weasley looked haunted. Shadows danced in the creases of his forehead, played along the bags under his eyes, and threw his eyes into dull relief. Stubble lined the older wizard’s normally clean-shaven cheeks and jaw. 

He looked so worn Harry wondered how he was still awake. Then again, that would be very hypocritical of him, to not understand the blight of sleeplessness and stress.

Harry licked his lips, and leaned forward a bit on his couch cushion.

“Mr. Weasley,” whispered Harry, and thankfully Arthur’s eyes only widened a bit in surprise. Harry took that as a sign that he could continue.

“Erm—How are you?” asked Harry, and suddenly felt strange talking in a disembodied fashion to the Weasley patriarch.

“You shouldn’t be down here, Harry,” came the even reply, though Harry didn’t think he was being reprimanded.

“I know, I just—er—heard you come down. Could you not sleep either?” Maybe he should have left out that last part.

Mr. Weasley seemed to have pinpointed his location as he spoke, and now looked at the indents in the couch where Harry sat. He looked amused, but not like he was about to comment on their sleeplessness.

“It’s just been trouble at the Ministry, I’m afraid. Sorry we haven’t caught each other for a chat. I’ve been taking dinner in mine and Molly’s room and sleeping right away.” Arthur drew his eyes up to approximately where Harry’s face would be. 

“I’m sure you’ve already been told by the others,” he continued to whisper, “but I’m glad you found your way back to us. These have been challenging times, and we need to stick together.”

Harry swallowed at that, and looked to the fire before remembering that Mr. Weasley couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat softly, and whispered back, “Ron has said some of the changes at the Ministry have been drastic.”

Mr. Weasley nodded. “That they have,” he said gravely.

“Could it be because _he_ believes that the Order isn’t a threat anymore?” Harry pushed his luck, uncertain if Mr. Weasley would give him that kind of information. Then again, Arthur had been less opposed to withholding information from Harry in the past.

The frown on Mr. Weasley’s face wasn’t encouraging, but after a moment he answered. “I do think You-Know-Who believes that the Order will not attempt a coup over his own, especially if our forces are perceived as disorderly. We’re trying to not give the Death Eaters and turned Aurors a reason to throw us in Azkaban. We can’t do a lot of help for each other there.”

Harry nodded, and then, remembering again that Mr. Weasley couldn’t see him, slipped the Cloak off of his head. Arthur looked ready to say something about it, but he didn’t.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, Harry,” he said instead, “that there is a guard maintaining watch over our residence.” Yes, Harry knew that, but he waited for the man to continue. “I believe that, though it may have started as a way to look for you, they have expanded it to a monitoring situation of all Order members.”

Harry swallowed again, because yes, he knew this, but he could tell there was more.

“I received a letter from Minerva indicating that she had been questioned about her participation in the fight that happened in May. Now, I think that we all are of the same mind here, when I say that they took her into custody under false pretenses. There is something more in play here than questions that they already know the answers to. Has Ron told you about the wand registration?”

Harry nodded. “He said that they were trying to renew the Trace.”

Arthur nodded as well. “Yes, but that’s only part of it. Kingsley has said it’s an easy way, easier than the Taboo was, to find dissenters of the Dark.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “How could they manage that?”

“It’s not a matter of manage, now. We have seen it at work.” Mr. Weasley leaned forward in his chair, his hands folded between his knees. “Harry,” he said seriously, and Harry felt his back straighten. “Have you ever heard of a magic Tapper?”

He shook his head, no, and Arthur nodded.

“It was something that is internal knowledge to the Ministry, but only in light of recent events. Kingsley has an insider with the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries, who had been on a team working towards what we now know as a Tapper. They got the idea from the Dementor’s Kiss.” Harry quirked an eyebrow at that.

“The way the Tapper transfers Magical energy is threaded into how many people are using it. You could think of it like a woven rug—if all of the rope strands were different Magical citizens.”

“So you’re saying,” Harry started slowly, allowing his mind to fill in the blanks, “that because so many witches and wizards have registered under the new Trace—er—the Tapper, then—er—”

“As I understand it, unlike how the Trace tracks our underaged community in non-parasitical ways, the Tapper tracks intention with your Magical core, and feeds itself back to the overarching magic that connects the community to the Ministry. 

Every time a new person is added to the conglomerate, through registration, it makes the spell stronger. It looks far more complex than the Taboo, and near-impossible to dismantle. That’s according to Bill. Why the Unspeakables allowed their pet project to fall into You-Know-Who’s hands is the biggest failing I have seen from their Department.”

Mr. Weasley wrung his hands together subconsciously.

“And why, er, I mean, what was the purpose of making this thing?” asked Harry. “It seems like it would only be used for this purpose, against the Wizarding community.”

“Ah, see, that is a very good question. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on who you are—there is always research being done for one reason or another, ethical or not. The purpose, I suppose, can be up to who is in control of the spell at large. In this case, it seems to be applied only to drain dissenters of their magic, would it be used against certain parties in control. 

Since a person’s Magical core is tied to the Tapper, they could be drained down to a state of permanent depletion. In other words, it could render someone a Squib, if they continued to use Magic to dissent against the new Ministry.”

“That’s awful,” Harry quietly exclaimed. 

They both jumped as a log in the fireplace collapsed and spat sparks. 

Arthur leaned back in his chair, and Harry tried to get his mind under control. 

So that’s why there hadn’t been a reignited force after the Battle. It sounded like the choice was Azkaban or registration, and as Mr. Weasley had said, no one could do much good from prison.

“So, intentional magic against his new regime will drain the core of anyone who goes against him?” 

Even as he asked, in the back of his mind Harry had the clearest of remembrances to the conversation with Voldemort, in which they had discussed who would be worthy to contribute to the Magical community. Was this Voldemort’s answer, his solution to what would otherwise be friction throughout the Wizarding World? 

It was a bit of join-or-die mentality, which Harry supposed fit the bill for Voldemort’s entire ego imbalance and historical preference to be in absolute control.

They sat in a long silence, and Harry digested the information he was given. Soon, he gave an involuntary yawn.

“You should go back upstairs,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, and leaned his wrist toward the fire to read his watch. “And, Merlin’s beard, Molly will have my hide if she knew we were down here, never mind discussing this.” 

Harry just nodded, and pulled the Cloak over his head.

“Good night, Mr. Weasley,” Harry whispered as he passed the armchair. 

“Good night.”

Harry ascended the stairs and settled back on the cot, but he lay awake a long while afterward. His mind raced with all sorts of theories, and the more he thought, the more he decided Voldemort’s use of the Tapper was a terrible way to take to leadership—neutering the competition shouldn’t be an option. 

This must also be why Voldemort had been so confident in the offer of pardons. There wasn’t much of a threat if someone’s magic was depleted because it was used against Death Eater forces. It seemed so impossible that a weapon like that could exist to control the masses, and be accepted—though the public wasn’t informed about what being “registered” actually did to them.

Harry laid there and worried about Mr. Weasley not sleeping either, despite his overload of work at the Ministry.

He really thought it would make all the difference in the world to be back at the Burrow, but this place—besides it housing his friends, besides it being a safe haven—still felt like a prison. 

Harry couldn’t escape that thought, and it returned, despite his gratefulness and happiness. There was only a window in a room, he could only sneak around, he couldn’t leave the safety of the house without Mrs. Weasley thinking the worst would happen—which it probably would. Even so, he couldn’t remain cooped-up forever. Especially not when Hermione was flying solo, and the Ministry was clearly under new management. If the Department of Mysteries had just capitulated to Voldemort’s whims, then the Ministry of Magic had fallen into even more obtuse hands than when Harry had last visited it.

It was a blatant takeover, just as Ginny and Ron had said, and Mr. Weasley had affirmed. Blatantly, the Dark had taken over and decided his side had won, even when there were still people fighting. Not belligerently fighting, more sneakily now, but still.

The creak of the landing and the quiet steps down the hall indicated that Mr. Weasley had finally followed him up, headed back to bed.

What happened at the Ministry nowadays was out of Harry’s control. These thoughts would just lead him to further trouble, so he should stop worrying himself over things he couldn’t help. It was his job to keep himself hidden, for now, as boring as that was. 

Harry stared out at the deep greys of the night’s clouds. Due to how late—early?—it was, he was sure in for an exhausting day tomorrow. He yawned again. Despite himself, he heaved a sigh, and fell to the strange, shadow-blotted fog.

***

The following day was just as relatively uneventful as the previous one. The sky had maintained its cloudy visage, and released a drizzle throughout the afternoon. The activities of the younger occupants of the Burrow were used more as time-fillers rather than for intentionally productive purposes.

That was, until they got a message from Hermione.

When Ron had told him that Hermione changed the way she communicated with him every time she reached out, Harry supposed that that meant a different owl, or sending a Patronus. He did not, however, expect a piece of paper to appear out of the ceiling above Ron’s head and float down in front of him.

“What is that?” Harry asked, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit next to Ron.

“Come in close, I’ve got to figure it out,” Ron replied. He tilted the photo—a clipping from a Muggle newspaper, which displayed a black-and-white ad for a realty company—and flipped it over. Harry didn’t know what he was doing, but didn’t want to interrupt his concentration. This seemed like an important ritual.

Eventually, after Ron had seemingly examined the entire clipping several times, he exclaimed, “There, do you see it? Get ready.”

Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be seeing or getting ready for, but he continued to scan the print for something standout. Ron swiped his thumb over the bench pictured behind the ad’s smiling woman, and Hermione’s voice began to play, as if from a tape-recorder.

“Hi. Everything is alright. Haven’t had any close calls and I’m keeping safe.” Harry had forgotten how gently she spoke, when she wasn’t answering questions or fighting for her opinions. It sounded like she was trying to keep her voice down, actually, even over the substantial background noise. They both leaned closer to the photo and listened.

“We should talk soon. It won’t be the normal way. I will figure something out for us and send an update. I love you.”

There was a mechanical screech heard over the din and a noise that sounded familiar to Harry, before the sound cut out.

The paper ignited then, and the flames slowly ate their way down the page. Even as he tossed the last bit of flaming paper into the air and it vanished, Ron seemed relieved at the latest message that Hermione was all right. 

Ron smiled at Harry. The tips of his ears were red, probably from hearing his girlfriend’s last comment, and he looked happy. “Blimey, I don’t know how she does it, but she always does.” 

Harry asked how she knew where Ron was to send a message, but his friend just shook his head. No idea.

“Do you think she knows I’m here?” wondered Harry. “I mean, is that possible?”

Ron just shook his head again. “No idea, mate.”

Harry just nodded, and tried to replay the message in his head, to figure out what that noise at the end had been, but soon gave up.

“You have no idea where she’s headed? And what did she mean by the normal way?” 

Ron’s face slid to a frown at Harry’s questions. “Dunno, but she sends something to me at least once every few days. At least that lets us know she’s okay, whatever she’s doing.” Ron shrugged. “Though, the normal way can’t be through Floo, since those are all shut down and tracked. Hopefully, though, ‘Mione meant that she has something set up that will let us talk to each other, instead of only sending me things one-way.”

Harry just nodded again.

The afternoon bled into evening and the drizzle had grown into a full-blown rainstorm by dinner time.

When Mrs. Weasley came up with food for Harry, Ron, and Ginny—as she seemed to accept that they should keep him company at meals, if he wasn’t allowed downstairs—she seemed frazzled. Ron didn’t seem to notice, but when Mrs. Weasley jumped at thunder a second time, Harry caught Ginny’s eye.

“Something wrong, Mum?” she asked, and Mrs. Weasley fidgeted with the soup ladle and her apron several times before answering.

“It’s nothing, Ginny. There were just some people out with the guard swap a few minutes ago having a row. It makes me nervous that they can just come onto our property whenever they please.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed at that, but he cleared it as Mrs. Weasley turned back to him, a smile plastered to her face.

“You three should just stay up here, and don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll collect them in the morning.” She left then, shutting the door with a quiet click.

“That was weird,” Ginny mumbled. Harry could tell that there was something wrong, but Mrs. Weasley, being Mrs. Weasley, was trying to shelter them from it. 

Harry glanced to his Invisibility Cloak at the foot of the cot. He might need to keep it close.

Ron continued to eat, and then lay back with a contented sigh. Harry was just picking at his food. His scar had been silent since the previous night; that didn’t bode well in his stomach.

When Harry left the bathroom after getting ready for sleep, he was still distracted by thoughts of who could have been fighting outside, and didn’t notice that Ginny was standing in the hall outside the door, leaning against the bannister. 

“Harry, are you alright?”

He started.

“Oh. Yeah,” he said convincingly. It wasn’t a lie, he was just deep in thought, theorizing.

“Did you take more potion today?” 

He shook his head, no. “It hasn’t bothered me today. I don’t know what it means.”

Ginny walked with him down the unlit hall, and they stalled outside her door. The rain pattered overhead.

She made no move to enter her room as she said, “I’ll see you in the morning.” Her brown eyes stared at him like beacons through the darkness. 

After a moment of silence between them, Ginny pulled him into a hug and pecked him on the cheek. He was frozen, but her flowery scent flooded his nostrils. His chest warmed, and he swallowed thickly, like he was trying to keep a sea of emotion within him. 

Ginny pulled back and gave him a small smile, before she tucked her hair behind her ear and reached for the doorknob.

He didn’t know what came over him, but he shoved aside the butterflies and worry that someone might catch them here, standing so close, and think that they were sneaking around. Harry’s hand closed on her wrist, and stopped her from opening the door. As she looked up in surprise, he leaned in and kissed her.

The warmth in his chest bloomed and strengthened, and he wasn’t sure how long they stood there, with just the softness of her lips touching his chapped ones. Ginny’s hand moved up and stroked the side of his neck, but didn’t deepen the kiss. It was just an experience between the two of them, like a remembrance from long before now.

When he pulled back, her eyes were still closed. His hand had somehow ended up in the one that wasn’t thumbing gently along his neck. Ginny smiled at him through the darkness of the hall, and her eyes crinkled.

“You sure you won’t come in?” she whispered playfully. 

Harry grinned back at her, but mumbled, “I think some people would have a problem with that.” Ginny rolled her eyes, but squeezed his hand. 

“See you in the morning,” he murmured, as they gently parted.

“Yes,” she whispered back, her eyes still bright and probing. “Have a good night.”

Harry turned and walked the short distance to Ron’s room, and heard Ginny’s door softly shut behind him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pump his fist in the air, or just keep privately reveling in this feeling of warmth.

Ron gave no acknowledgement as Harry lay on the cot and settled in for the night. In his hands was the same Quidditch magazine they had all taken turns with, and Harry knew his friend was most likely memorizing the scores of the Chudley Cannons’ last season, as he had. 

By the time Ron snapped off the lamp a while later, Harry had already relived the moment in the hallway a hundred times. The warmth in his chest felt satisfying, but he had to wonder if he was just reaching for normalcy. 

Could he really be with Ginny, with everything else that was still going on? He couldn’t hurt her like before, by starting something, only to leave again; that wouldn’t be fair.

The cot creaked beneath him as Harry turned on his side and cushioned his pillow between his head and arm. He wondered why his scar didn’t hurt. 

It had not escaped his notice that, when he experienced happiness, the effects of his scar brought him back to reality. That unexpectedly had not happened yet today, and he felt like he was waiting for the combustion to happen. 

Things had been too good for too long—a day, but still. He was Harry Potter. Quiet days made him suspicious.

As the rain continued to pelt the roof, exhaustion caught up to him, and he slipped to sleep.

All around him the green-grey fog swirled, and seemed to swallow him down into it.

A shape moved, and Harry felt his heart race as his eyes flew to it, for it to only disappear as the fog swirled ever more thickly around him. 

There was a flash of light, but no sound. It was always soundless. They were just lightning strikes, without the following thunder.

The fog closed on him again, and for the first time in this dream sequence, Harry began to feel his chest tighten, and panic set in his bones.

Another flash, but this time when the shadow approached, Harry stumbled backwards in the mist. He wildly thought something grazed his shoulder and was afraid to turn and see, but the dimness grew before he could do so, as the light faded again.

Harry grabbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the panic to abate. His chest kept squeezing uncomfortably, a punishing pressure crushed his ribs.

He imagined the fog creeping around and shuttering him in this place, wherever he was. The world of greens and greys, of nonexistence and meaninglessness intermingling with one another. As if one could exist in the other.

Harry released the bridge of his nose and, eyes still closed, took a deep breath in. It seemed to help a lot, as he sucked in more. He released it in a long, slow exhale, and felt calmer. He imagined if he were to open his eyes the fog could be blown away. 

He stood in his dream and he felt better, but colder. At least his chest wasn’t being squeezed tightly anymore.

It was all calm.

He slowly opened his eyes, and the room was free of that claustrophobic fog. There were no swirling greens, like noxious gas, it was just a blank space. Or a box, with a grayish hue.

Harry turned and felt the walls, and they were solid, holding firm. He looked at the ceiling, but it was just like all the other sides of the large cube.

This wasn’t a dream he could have cooked up on his own. Everything was too...plain. Not that he was complaining, since this was free of nightmares.

It was just a strange dream to have. 

He paced the room. He jumped up and down. It was oddly like concrete. Usually, at this point, Harry would have something to do in his dreams, something to feel or fear, but there was nothing—and seemingly, there was nowhere to go.

After a while, he tried to picture the Dark Forest, or his memories, or anything. He tried to tap into his past nightmares, but it was useless brainwork.

He wondered worriedly if he was really asleep, but of course he was. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut again, and tried to picture Ginny. Nothing came forth, he felt nothing. That’s what confused him the most. 

He stood in the center of the room and imagined Hogwarts, the Gryffindor common room, the Great Hall, but still the concrete remained solid and blank. 

Finally, confused about what part of his mind wanted to keep him trapped in this meditation room, he tried to punch the wall, because you can’t get hurt in a dream, not really. Harry just hauled off, and went to slam his fist into one of the walls, because why not?

His wrist was caught before he could make impact.

Now, Harry believed he might have triggered a nightmare, because his tongue suddenly felt leaden and his throat went dry. He stared a long moment at the hand that encased his arm. 

It was long-fingered, bone-white, and familiar, and a black cloak was visible in his periphery.

Harry had to try a few times to remember how to swallow. Even when faced with the dream-Tom Riddle from over a week before, nothing had really touched him. It was all still imaginary.

“I would not recommend punching the wall, Harry,” a low, raspy voice advised. Harry tried then to pull away, and when he yanked his arm back from Voldemort’s grasp on him, he was released.

Taking several swift steps backward, Harry took in all of the tall man before him. The cloak stood out starkly against the grey background of their enclosure, or whatever it was. He held his wrist to his chest with his other hand, as though he needed to stop the flow of blood to a wound. 

Harry didn’t blink as he stared at the Dark wizard, who looked calmly back at him, as though he had been there all the while and didn’t find Harry’s behavior even in the least bit odd.

He swallowed again, but opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“Where—How—This is a dream,” Harry finally stated, but it sounded as though he was trying to convince himself.

“Is that right, Harry?” Voldemort said sardonically. His red eyes hardly lifted from him as he pretended to glance around. Meanwhile, Harry tried hard to picture a scenario where the floor opened and Voldemort fell into a pit of lava. 

It didn’t happen. 

Harry bit his lip, and the walls glowed faintly. Wildly, he looked around the concrete cube. His mind was frantic, and he knew that he had lots of accusations if this was really Voldemort, but was currently wrestling with how the man could be here at all.

“What—” he began. 

“I think we should have a talk, Harry,” Voldemort easily cut him off. 

Harry, who had been watching the ceiling slowly stop glowing, lowered his eyes to glare at the invasive Dark Lord.

The man waved a long-fingered hand, and a green, upholstered wingback chair was conjured in the center of the room.

“Do sit,” instructed Voldemort, curtly.

“No,” growled Harry through clenched teeth. Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, just moved to take the seat himself. It was elegant, the way he moved and gracefully sat.

Merlin, maybe this was somehow real. There was no way that Harry would actively dream of Voldemort as graceful. It just wasn’t the adjective that came immediately to his mind. At least, he didn’t think so.

“This is a dream,” Harry stated again, as if offering a challenge for the older wizard to contradict him. Voldemort moved his arms on the rests and twisted his wrists outward, extending his hands as if to say, ‘believe what you will.’

Harry groaned loudly, and began to pace around the cube.

“What is this then? A vision? Do you need something?” he snapped at the seated man.

“I am merely surprised that you are alive and well.”

Harry stopped walking, and approached the chair slowly, as close as he dared. He peered down at Voldemort who looked patiently up at him. Only, the slitted eyes swam with wrath. 

As he darted his eyes between Voldemort’s, he saw the light from the walls growing around them, reflected in the rivers and edges of Voldemort’s irises.

Harry glanced up around the room, but the light had already faded. When he stared back at Voldemort, those eyes shone with a deep knowledge of something—and they were amused about it.

“No, you’re not,” growled Harry. “Though, maybe you should be after trying to burn a forest down around me.”

“Ah, yes. How did you survive?” Voldemort inquired with annoying interest.

“That’s my business,” said Harry shortly, and walked away from the chair in the middle of the room. Voldemort just hummed in response, and swiftly stood. 

The Dark Lord began to pace around. He looked at the walls, and seemed to note how they were constructed, just as Harry had. However, after a couple laps around the cube, Harry realized that he was being circled.

Harry stood near the middle of this shadowy boxed room, and Voldemort was spiraling in on him. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry said stonily. Voldemort turned and looked Harry up and down. 

“Noted,” he said, and it irked Harry that his tone almost sounded bored, when he was so clearly focused. 

Closer and closer the black-cloaked wizard came, but continued to seemingly ignore Harry in his process—even though Harry knew there was nothing to focus on in this room but each other.

Eventually, he stopped nearly in front of Harry, and turned his red-eyed gaze down to him. Harry grit his teeth under the surveying eyes.

“Are you asleep right now?” came the unexpected question.

“Well, er, yeah.” This didn’t seem to be novel information, in fact, it seemed to be pretty obvious that both of them were probably asleep to be here, wherever here was.

Voldemort just nodded slowly, and Harry felt awkward under his gaze. He focused on not being the next one to break the silence between them.

“Answer me this, Harry,” said the Dark Lord, after he stared at him a great deal. “It must be your impression that you are somehow unreachable here. Do you believe yourself to be protected from my influence, where we are now?” He tilted his hairless, bone-white head to the side, and waited. 

Harry swallowed. What kind of a question was that?

“Erm,” Harry stopped and cleared his throat, before he raised his arms around and gestured to the dream room. “Yes?” 

He was only taken off guard by the brief quirk of the corners of Voldemort’s lips.

“Consider this your sole warning, my Horcrux. It is not wise to flaunt when you believe you have an advantage.” Voldemort had such a calculated, incredulous look on his face, it was almost comical. 

Harry wanted to shake his head in disbelief. ‘In my mind?’ he internally scoffed. ‘It seems like it is a pretty safe bet here, if nowhere else.’ 

In the back of his mind, though, he considered the warning, and decided that even if he was in a dream, it was probably best to not piss off the Dark Lord. If for no other reason than, more often than not, anger gave the other man motivation.

Instead, Harry aimed a real question at the Dark Lord.

“Are you really here—or is this a vision?” He still wasn’t sure, but from how dream Voldemort responded, it might give him a clue. “Don’t you have better things to do than hang out with me, here?”

Voldemort just looked down at him, and the cube’s surfaces glowed brightly, and sustained, as Voldemort swept away to sit once more in the chair in the center of the room. Once he was settled, the light faded. 

The source or reasoning of that light was a curiosity to Harry, but he would figure it out. He followed the Dark Lord and stood in front of him again, but still a fair distance away.

Voldemort placed his arms on the rests, and leaned comfortably back in the seat, but his eyes flashed with something hateful.

“Better things to do than to recapture my wayward Horcrux? I think not, Harry,” Voldemort hissed evenly. Harry gulped. 

“Though,” mused Voldemort as he continued, “do not put your value on that alone. Know that _when_ I find you, after the resources wasted to follow your trail, your consequences—among many—will be to pay back what you have cost my regime. You will pay it back, Harry, in _spades_.”

Even from here, Harry could feel the heat of Voldemort’s anger. The rage he knew very well. 

He decided it didn’t matter.

Harry scoffed. “Threatening me won’t help you here, you know. I think we both know exactly what kind of treatment I will get _if_ you can find me.”

Voldemort’s face, which threatened to break into an ugly snarl, blanked so quickly that Harry was thrown yet again by the common mood swings.

“Oh, Harry. When I again put hands on you, I assure you...not a hair on your head will be harmed.” Voldemort’s eyes darkened to a deep red as he spoke levelly, and Harry pressed his lips thin.

What a bold lie that was, even for him.

The walls glowed again with soft, bright light, and Harry ignored what the Dark Lord had said.

“Okay, how do you keep doing that?” Harry asked, exasperated. “You’re still upset you couldn’t keep me in a room, so you figured out how to build one for me in my head?” 

Voldemort’s eyes flashed again with that strange combination of amusement and something else, but Harry couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

“Ever the pessimist. I do wonder where you get it from,” mused Voldemort lightly, in complete contradiction to his body language.

That’s when it hit him, so hard that it must have shown on his face. If this wasn’t a dream, he should be able to sense Voldemort’s feelings, decipher what his looks meant through the bulb. Since he couldn’t, this had to be a dream, or vision—the point was that Voldemort couldn’t do anything but talk at him, no matter what threats he threw around.

Harry suddenly barked out a laugh, and it sounded loud and disjointed—which, incidentally, was exactly how he felt. With his newfound untethered feeling, he walked away from the Dark Lord, who hadn’t reacted at all to Harry’s sudden outburst. 

When he sat against one of the hard walls, he looked back. Voldemort looked vicious, though he hadn’t moved from the chair. It was like his posture and expression were controlled separately, since they never seemed to match.

“I’ve lost it, haven’t I?” Harry chuckled without humor. “Something in me has broken, and now I just dream about you and me in my subconscious. Merlin,” Harry took a deep breath as he sank his head into his hands, and ran them through his hair. 

When he rested his head back against the wall, Voldemort had silently swept forward to stand before him. Through the renewed glow that emanated from all the walls, Harry had to squint up at the dark eyes that looked down at him. The illumination made Voldemort’s crimson eyes contrast boldly against his pale skin. From this angle, Harry felt a twinge of something suspicious.

“Just like old times,” mumbled Harry, and hauled himself to his feet. It really didn’t help the height difference all that much, which wasn’t fair, since this was his dream and all. 

They should at least be the same height, if that was the case. 

His subconscious really wasn’t cooperating tonight.

“What is?” asked Voldemort, his tone uninterested, probably to cover any other emotions.

“You, towering over me,” explained Harry, apparently to himself, as he waved a hand flippantly off to the side. “I guess it’s a pretty hard memory to shake.” He moved to push past the man, but he was slammed against the wall, and a hand pressed hard into his shoulder to keep him there. Harry hissed softly in surprise.

That shouldn’t have hurt, but it felt like his damn shoulder blade got bruised just now.

Harry must have looked confused, but Voldemort began to chuckle in earnest now.

“How naive you are, Harry. You truly think you are just dreaming. Is that why you taunt me?” Voldemort had a sadistic gleam in his eye that made Harry’s heart begin to pick up speed. The clamp on his shoulder didn’t relent its pressure, and so he didn’t try to struggle against it. Something strange was going on.

Before he could think further, Voldemort leaned forward and, it was impossible, Harry swore he could smell him—that thick scent rolled off of the black robes as he drifted in closer, and spoke above Harry’s left ear.

“You flatter me, my Horcrux. You still believe this is a dream, though I treat you in this manner?” Voldemort chuckled in earnest now. “Pressing you into walls, and accepting your place—my, what a _masochist,”_ he hissed.

The walls began to glow again, brighter than before. 

It took Harry a second, where he simply blinked up at the side of the man’s face, but he managed to remember that there was a hand on him. He squirmed away, and finally grunted out, “I’m _not_ —a masochist. Ha!” 

Harry shouted victoriously as he slipped out from under the hand, but his jaw was captured in the next moment, and fingers squeezed his cheeks so hard that his lips puckered. 

“ _I do believe that you will show me,”_ rattled the Parseltongue, and Harry fell back slightly against the wall to keep himself upright. The hand around Harry’s jaw released him, and snaked along the the base of his neck to drag him closer to the shoulder in front of him. “Just tell me where you are,” hissed the voice in his ear.

Harry pushed weakly against the chest in front of him and forced Voldemort back a step, though the man seemed to do it of his own accord.

“ _I think, Harry,_ ” the Dark Lord informed him softly, “ _that you will find I can be very_ _persuasive, should you choose to continue your resistance_.”

Harry’s head felt like it was on fire, like he was feverish, and his vision swam with the effects. The glow in the cube grew stronger.

Voldemort started laughing, and it was his familiar high, cold laugh. The one that made Harry want to explode in anger, to combat the sadism with something from within himself.

Harry yelled out, and slammed to his knees. He pressed his palms to his ears and tried to block out the sound of Voldemort’s laughter, but he couldn’t. It felt like it was coming from inside him, bubbling through to the surface with every breath he released.

The glow grew to such a point that Harry couldn’t help but be blinded, or maybe he had collapsed to the floor and there was nothing to see but illumination. The laughter continued, as if trapped on a loop, but became distant and tapered.

Harry shot up, tangled in blankets and completely soaked through with sweat. 

He clutched his head as he trembled with a fever that wasn’t really there, though his skin felt hot and his face felt numb.

Damnit, his scar hurt like hell.

The first sounds he recognized, other than blood rushing in his ears and his own hammering heartbeat, were Ron’s snores. They helped ground him, and measure his breaths. 

His heart settled after many moments of steady breathing. He threw the blankets back and stepped out of the room as quietly as he could.

He shivered as the sweat cooled on his skin, and he moved through the darkened halls, trying not to step on any creaky floorboards. Harry went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Bent over the sink, he splashed water over his face and held the towel to his skin. He breathed deeply into the fibers. 

It was only then that it occurred to him to check for something.

This was crazy. Nothing was there. He didn’t need to check.

Harry sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes, his hands clasped in front of him as he stared off into space. He had to know if his mind was just that talented at dreams or if he was really in trouble.

He slowly slipped Ron’s borrowed shirt over his head, took a deep breath, and stood.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, as he looked over his shoulder.

There in the mirror, spanned over his shoulder blade, was a bruise, purple with broken blood vessels.

_This can’t be real._

He rotated his arm, and winced. It sure felt real. 

Swallowing hard, Harry opened the medicine cabinet and took a dose of pain potion, just to calm his burning head, which was demanding attention every second, on the second. 

He needed that to stop so he could think; he needed to figure some things out.

Harry slid a couple of bottles around, and looked for another purple potion he would recognize anywhere, having been given it more than a few times by Madam Pomfrey.

The Weasleys did not appear to have any Dreamless Sleep, however. He would have to ask Ginny in the morning if there was another stash around. As for right now, the problem of a _very real_ bruise on his shoulder from getting slammed into a _very unreal_ wall had to be worked through. 

The solution for tonight would be no sleep.

As a last thing, though it was reckless, Harry snagged his Invisibility Cloak and headed downstairs to get some water. He couldn’t help it. He needed something to drink.

Also, if he wasn’t sleeping, he may as well snoop around. 

Merlin, Mrs. Weasley would kill him.

At the kitchen sink, he sipped his water and watched the guard through the window. They were sitting in a chair by the front fence, which was still collapsed. The guard didn’t do much, just sat and twiddled with their wand. Harry quickly became bored of watching the man outside, and saw nothing remnant of the skirmish that had rattled Mrs. Weasley.

Disappointed, Harry made his way back upstairs, careful to avoid any creaky steps.

Back on the cot, he knew he was in for a few hours of boredom. Since his scar was numbed, he didn’t have to worry so much about being taken off-guard by a surge of annoyance from the Dark Lord, if that really was him in his dream. 

It was becoming more likely, the longer he thought on it. Every iteration made him more disconcerted.

Harry shifted on his back, and felt the bruise under him.

Not wanting to work himself up again, he vowed to tell Ron what was going on as soon as his friend woke up. There was no need to bother him now, as Harry doubted there was anything that they could do. 

That was always the problem, wasn’t it? There was rarely anything anyone could do to help him deal with Voldemort.

Harry spent the next part of the night fighting off his tiredness by thinking of Hermione and her self-destructing note. The sound at the end had been so familiar, but Harry couldn’t place why.

 _Wish you were here, Hermione,_ he thought sadly. She would probably know what to do, or have some book to know where to look for clues to his predicament of dream events translating to the physical world. For now, though, Harry was on his own.

Merlin knows, this kind of thing was not natural.

It should be impossible, actually, but this was Lord Voldemort, and the man was insistent that he knew better than everyone else about everything...especially magic. 

Reluctantly, as Harry continued to stare at the ceiling, he started to believe that the Dark Lord—braggart though he may be—may have been telling the truth about his explorations into magic. He thought back to the man stood above him in the forest the night of his escape—the Voldemort whose robes had whipped wildly as he brought nature to its knees. 

That wasn’t just the Elder Wand at work, though certainly the wand was as powerful as legend said. No, this was power, pure and copious.

Harry shoved his hands behind his head and sighed. What a fucking night.

He just noticed it had stopped raining, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Proud of you for powering through this chapter. There’s some interesting stuff ahead.  
> Leave a comment or keysmash if you want—I read them all, and I love hearing what you think about the story, etc.  
> Much love, and take care until the next one <3


	11. Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes bad days have you in good company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was agonizing into the void.  
> Enjoy the chapter, and thank you for reading <3

Throughout the night, until the sun rose, Harry replayed everything in the dream room. He wondered about the fog and the shapes he had chased, and the longer he wondered, the more he was sickeningly sure that they had been traps Voldemort set to lure him into a vision. 

Huddled in the cot, Harry felt shivers rush over him. He thought about the bruise he had seen on his back, and had the same repetitive thought: it wasn’t possible.

Only...the last time that a vision had felt like that, Mr. Weasley had almost died. It had been Harry’s fault, as the snake—as Nagini, the last fellow piece of Tom Riddle’s soul.

He turned over and looked at Ron’s sleeping form, which, unless he squinted, was just a shadowy mass of limbs sprawled over and under the blankets. Ron’s relaxed, light snores traveled through the darkness and grated on him. 

_Must be nice._

Harry sighed lightly. That wasn’t him; that was his crankiness and lost inhibitions because of his exhaustion. Harry could reason it out all he wanted, but he still felt more terrible and grumpy by the minute. It felt as though he hadn’t slept since he was at the house, in the blank room of captivity and boredom. He had gotten rest then, so why not now?

The obvious answer was Voldemort was up to something, but the question of how he was getting to Harry, physically needling and assaulting him from his subconscious, was an entirely different problem.

Harry so desperately desired to disconnect his brain for a while. That did always seem to be the issue...but never quite to this degree.

For the seventh time, he rolled onto his side, and the cot frame creaked under his movements. He smushed the pillow into his ear and glared into the darkness.

There was a feeling that came in waves since he had awoken: frustration. Harry was pretty sure it was a team effort, between Voldemort and himself, which caused him to experience this much anger at once.

As Harry stared hard through the darkness to the floorboards he couldn’t see, he fiercely argued with himself.

First, he felt like an absolute nutter. His thoughts continuously circulated around to the bruise that he had seen in the bathroom mirror. Honestly, he could have gotten that from anywhere over the last two days; it could be mere coincidence that it was there at all...in the exact place that had smarted when bloody Voldemort had thrown him into a bloody wall.

Then the other side of his mind jumped in and made a case. A case practically _for_ Voldemort. Whispers that swept in and said that he couldn’t get away forever, that this bid for freedom was something that Voldemort would pour more and more resources against until the Dark Lord found his separatist soul...

Then the more hopeful side of him piped up over the din of his exhaustion-fueled misery, and told him he had made it this far, pushed through this much shit and come out the other side. Still in a shit-covered situation, but the particulars couldn’t be helped.

It was about outcomes. Besides, he knew more about the state of things by the day. Every hurdle was an ability to do more, and get closer to the end of the race of straight-up survival. There had to be an end to this madness, somewhere, someday.

Harry rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger, and sighed lightly. He pressed in on his eyes until it hurt and watched the swirls and blue lights dance.

It reminded him of the fog.

_Fuck._

Escapism. That’s what he needed. As his consciousness warred back and forth, he felt jostled, and wished he could put it all on mute. He needed a fresh mind to think in, and a new, unblemished body to thrive in. 

Where else could this end? Maybe there really was only the delay of recapture, torture, and, to even everything out, delight-less imprisonment...

 _Lovely_.

He grimaced at the shadowy floor. Hopefully that wasn’t all his future could be.

There was a chance he could get away. Not as a temporary solution, either, but for good. He could just leave to another country, learn the language, and blend into some Muggle town. Life would be easier, even if he never used magic again for fear of being caught, and above all, he could be anonymous and free. Just like the other night as he sat in the tall grass and appreciated the fresh air that open nature provided. Maybe he could live with that feeling all the time.

He could live in a house that took up all his time to renovate by hand, and take walks up hiking ridges. Maybe he could own a pet, and cook for fun. Maybe in the summers, he could sit on a porch he built, and listen to the ocean cascade nearby. The more he added to this pretend place he was building in his mind’s eye, the more Harry wished it were real. He wanted to visit that version of himself, and ask him how he got his own life, because surely that would mean he had escaped the talons of Fate and every other curse and expectation currently placed on him. 

Because that’s all it was, at the heart of it. What he envisioned was a fantasy, not his life. Fate still had other plans for him, and Harry could feel the truth of that like a punch to the ribs. 

_Avoid Voldemort, but also kill him, and also yourself, preferably and definitely before killing him. And save the Wizarding World like your parents did, but just like them, you aren’t expected to be around to appreciate it._

_Sounds great, count me in,_ Harry thought with sullen sarcasm.

Another pulse of anger coursed through him. The imagined life and home he built evaporated from his thoughts.

The cot squeaked more than Harry would like as he maneuvered onto his stomach, resting his chin on his arm, and although the springs sounded like a choir of groaning mice, the noise didn’t interrupt Ron’s steady, deep breathing.

Harry wondered what Ron dreamed about. They never really talked about that kind of thing, not really. Unfortunately, Harry’s dreams had to be shared more than he would like because lives sometimes depended on his insight. 

He sighed again, feeling his chest deflate slowly under him. Some circulation was being cut off somewhere because his head began to throb. Or it could be Voldemort...

The man was a menace. 

He rolled slowly onto his back, and an accompaniment of metal springs chorused below.

 _Merlin_ , Harry was bored. He tried to squint through the darkness and his fuzzy vision to see the crack in the ceiling, but it was all a blended, dark expanse. It wasn’t any fun being awake, but he supposed it was better than the alternative.

Lord Voldemort thought that he was persuasive? Harry had been persuading himself to accept situations his whole life—this was no different.

Despite his anxiety towards the whole situation and what waited for him in his dreams or active imagination, he fought against falling asleep. Several times he flipped in boredom to keep in uncomfortable positions, so that he wouldn’t succumb to his eyes closing of their own accord.

Plagued by his isolationist thoughts, and unable to fully pin down the truth of what had happened, Harry wondered the rest of the night what he would tell Ron and Ginny when morning finally came.

***

Lord Voldemort sat behind his giant, mahogany desk in the back study of Malfoy Manor. He had requested for Lucius to create a space for him to work effectively after the siege on Hogwarts, and his Death Eater had provided. It was a quiet room with a large fireplace inset grandly into the left wall, across from a small, curtained window where he could look out to the hedges of the side yard. The walls were insulated by bookshelves that spanned floor-to-ceiling, stuffed with tomes. Grudgingly, he could not help but to admit that it was a haven. 

By design, the study was distant from unintentional disruptions to his concentration, as it would be a difficult room to stumble across. Only those he called for would appear. It appealed fully to Voldemort’s need for privacy, especially now. 

He breathed deep and stared off at the patterns on the large rug that covered the center of the room—it was all such thick, expensive extravagance. The Malfoys were showy, and he tolerated it. He was aloof from it all, anyway. The last thing he needed was to prove his worth with worldly indulgences. Voldemort almost rolled his eyes to himself, but even in private he was not a man to display such trivial emotions. 

Truthfully, he was immersed in the same repetitive thought: it had been three days and Harry Potter remained elusive.

Flesh. Warm, pliant...mortal. That was where his soul resided...in the simple existence of blood, skin, and _fragility._

 _And it was just on the loose,_ hopefully _somewhere_ in Britain.

It had been three days too long. It was almost time to call the scouts back, but Voldemort restrained himself, giving them a little longer. He was not unreasonable.

He would urge pressure to be placed on the scouts later today. Begrudgingly, the Dark Lord had learned that it was best to allude to a deadline, if he really valued the end results. Mindless, expendable, and lax as they were, he could not expect his subordinates to see the whole picture. What kind of a leader would he be if he did not correct at the right times? Voldemort had no intention of setting the ranks up for failure. At least once he combed through their measly efforts, especially given the generous extra timeframe, he could punish them in the brutal ways he could not with his own Horcrux. 

Voldemort’s lip very nearly curled up in disgust.

How...unpleasant to think on the possibility that it all might have been prevented, as Potter had insisted. That all such power might have been achieved early on. 

It hardly mattered now, of course. Everything was in place. It was almost all perfect, though things rarely stayed that way.

It was not Voldemort’s usual way, and there was no power in this pathetic world that could press him to admit it, but as he sat in the far corner of Malfoy Manor and considered how to decimate the roadblock of recapturing the fugitive _Chosen One_ , he realized he was stuck at a crossroad: that of winning Harry Potter’s trust or persuading him through alternative means. 

Both would get the job done. Threats may make his political endeavors less on-schedule, but he had dealt with less-agreeable people before. Just not those who he was also forced to protect. 

His teeth clenched hard together again. Nagini shifted under the desk by his feet.

After he experimented a lot with his deep meditation, he had managed to reach his wayward sliver of soul in just under two days, a monumental and expert task. 

The boy had so ostentatiously lurked in Voldemort’s mind at the peak of his torture of Lucius and Bellatrix—so bold of him, really. That moment of brazenness immediately turned the Dark Lord’s mind to the connection with his Horcruxes, and how to utilize it in the most refined, domineering way. 

Potter had seemed disoriented throughout their conversation the previous night—Voldemort had hypothesized that it was a side-effect of having his consciousness blended into the background—and that confusion seemed to lend itself to the boy speaking freely for at least part of their discussion. 

Potter still had to learn that any information was information that would be used against him.

Although, that had been the Dark Lord’s expectation. As much as Voldemort would prefer to appear unaware of his soul, his magic touching Potter had been intense, and it had not gone unnoticed over the course of the last month that they boy had been within his grasp. Nagini had always given a calming sensation, but she was fully under his control at all times and without question. Voldemort despised that Potter’s affect was anything but under control, and not within any realm that could be considered calming. 

His Horcrux seemed to want to bring out the violence in Lord Voldemort at every turn, despite his very commendable effort to the contrary.

Each time the Dark Lord had gone to the warded room at his manor, it was anyone’s guess what fresh hell waited for him. Voldemort restrained the fiercest urges within himself throughout the duration of each visit, and had succeeded in his careful demeanor around his Horcrux...nearly always. 

The boy was a menace.

Voldemort was in complete control of their interaction last night, however. It would seem that, so long as no other consciousness was competing, contact was a smooth operation. The containment of his soul translated roughly to swirls and swells, depicted like writing on the wall—the glow that Potter was so despicably captivated with deciphering in their shared space.

 _Deplorable,_ he scowled to himself. Lord Voldemort did not share.

Regardless, to have succeeded in contacting Potter was just another greatness to add to his impressive sheet of conquered magic.

Lord Voldemort would also be the last to admit it, but the experience drained him. Becoming physical in that space was no simple feat, and he was definitely the first wizard in all the ages to attempt it, or even have the opportunity to, since the container for his soul was a human—fragile, organic, and _ill-suited to be a Horcrux_ , much less _his_. 

His eyes lost their focus for a brief moment, as the outside of his vision tinged darker in his fresh relapse into fury.

To the left of the study’s window, there was an short wooden pillar with a blue-patterned vase placed atop. He eyed the decoration with distaste for a long moment, before his hand twitched and it violently shattered. Shards flew in innumerable directions, but the pieces had not hit the floor when they reassembled themselves and the vase was returned, whole, to the pillar.

Nagini hissed under the desk, displeased by the interruption to the silence. Voldemort smirked, and then frowned.

 _His lost Horcrux_ , he mused...Voldemort would ensure the boy did not get a moment of rest more.

Lord Voldemort would not have a repeat of last year. The Ministry was performing adequately enough. Lucius was back to flexing his political muscles and had even cleaned up his act a bit since the Battle. Still as pathetically sunken and hollowed as he had been for months, the Malfoy head had regained some semblance of confidence. That budding confidence or arrogance had even been retained after his Lord’s reminder of the necessity for results on the hunt for dear Harry _Potter_.

The bookshelf behind him creaked and the window rattled in its frame. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. Nagini hissed softly again, bumping his shin, but he ignored her.

 _Control_.

Lord Voldemort tsked to himself, and returned his gaze to the wide pattern on the rug.

There was a lot on his mind, and an order to it all, but it all hinged on the emergence of the location of the _Chosen One_ —preferably before he could claim an advantage to slip away again. 

The boy was _weak_ , but the window of opportunity to exploit that weakness was running its course. Voldemort knew Potter was most likely with people he trusted—his lip curled a touch—but his scouts had offered him only silence.

He slammed his palm against the smooth wood of the table. The desk cracked with a great splintering noise, and the window shuddered again. 

He should not have to do everything himself, and yet it always seemed to come down to that. People were so unreliable it was sickening.

Voldemort glared at the dark wood of the door across the room. Without shifting his gaze, he absently removed his wand from his sleeve and gave it a sharp wave. The desk cracked heavily again, and sealed itself. Nagini had uncoiled herself and raised her massive head to rest on his knee.

Concentratedly, Voldemort breathed out and rubbed a line up and down the middle of his forehead.

The boy was foolhardy and prone to error in his youthfulness. It would not be long before he would make a mistake out of carelessness. He did so like to show his hand to Lord Voldemort; it was almost laughable, the way he could hardly help but to tell Voldemort all the ways he was wrong. 

All right... _enough_ about Potter.

A moment of silence passed in the room, and Voldemort was very aware suddenly that there was no clock in the room. Possibly for the best. One of them—Lucius or Narcissa—had thought ahead to keep the room’s environmental vexations to a minimum. 

He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, dropping his hands down to the surface in front of him and staring deliberately at the top of the bookcase on the far wall.

Funny. He had not seen Lucius read a book since he first joined the Ministry, yet the man’s Manor was stacked with every type of text.

Voldemort leaned back in his chair and pondered the past for a moment. Not for any such ridiculous notion as sentimentality, but for rethinking his strategic placements.

Perhaps Lucius could be leveraged in other ways, after all. Of course, that would come to pass only if he continued to redeem himself. 

He suppressed another wave of frustration as it rippled through him.

More silence passed as Voldemort allowed his mind to quickly traverse into deeper, more mindful thoughts. He watched dust motes float in the shafts of morning sunlight, and stroked Nagini’s cool, dry head.

Yes, his forces had pivoted well over the past few months. He had needed the victory at Hogwarts—such a stronghold, a symbolic structure for the Light. Voldemort smirked at the thought. After the Battle, he had ordered that it be rebuilt immediately; the castle would always be the shrine to _his_ accomplishments, now.

A moment more, and Voldemort’s brow pulled in, and his upper lip curled in scorn at the rapid turn in his thoughts. He lightly pushed Nagini off of his knee. Her tongue flicked over his thumb as she withdrew under the desk.

Perhaps his renewed frustrations lay in that the Dark Lord was simply not celebratory over the things that rightfully belonged to him. To have Hogwarts and the Ministry recognized as his was only a step forward in his already blossoming public image. Well, somewhat. It was still imperative that the boy be brought to him, in the most relatively peaceful way, if possible.

How hateful...that it was impossible to avoid the topic of Harry Potter.

He glared at the rug, his frown deepening as he absently drew a long finger over his lower lip.

All would be as it should, soon enough.

Soon...

Voldemort scowled again. ‘Soon’ was leniency. _‘Soon’_ alluded to being accepting of failure... He most certainly was not.

He inhaled deeply, and leaned forward on the desk. The Dark Lord drew his eyes away from the rug, which was beginning to smoke under his pressured gaze. They landed on the slowly dimming morning light coming through the window. His mood soured further.

Overcast. It would surely rain.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed the spot between them. Everyone and everything vexed him...immensely.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed open, and his magic grew and saturated the air, fueled by the most malignant thoughts as they rushed through him like a tempest, suddenly aggravated and bloodthirsty. The bookcase behind Lord Voldemort shifted again, as the tightly-placed spines shifted and shoved against each other. 

His jaw clicked tighter, and his clasped hands clenched harder. Nagini shifted to curl her wide form over his feet.

Lord Voldemort inhaled again and forced his body, his mind, and the room to be still.

_Control._

***

Harry did not tell Ron what had happened in his dream the night before. Well, not immediately.

He watched his friend leave their room and continued to lay as he had been for the last several hours. As it turned out, given enough time to talk himself out of telling his friends something terrible, Harry seemed to value procrastination.

When he went to the bathroom again this morning, the bruise was still there, once again proving to him that he was out of his mind. Harry had half-hoped it would have just vanished on its own, like some sort of strange hallucination. Moreover, while he showered he found more injuries that confused him. 

Dark bruises were splotched on his knees. Perplexed, he stood in the warm spray and prodded at them, trying to ascertain that they existed, as well as gain some sort of recollection as to where they had come from—until he remembered that he had cracked them against the dream floor.

To say the least, he was unnerved by these slight injuries.

Over breakfast, Ron asked how he had slept, so Harry decided to shrug rather than lie. Harry would have to tell him eventually, he just wanted to try to figure some stuff out on his own first. 

Just like the previous day, the sky was overcast and foreboding. 

In stalling his talk with Ron, and feeling more like he should say something as each hour passed, he found himself laying on the cot, hands folded over his chest and staring at the crack in the ceiling. Ron was reading the Quidditch magazine from the previous night.

Harry suddenly shot to sitting upright and said, “Ron, I’ve figured it out.” When he looked triumphantly to his friend, the other boy looked alarmed. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Harry reassured him. “I mean, I know what the sound from Hermione’s message was. She was in a Underground car.” Rather than share his enthusiasm, Ron’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“What?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed to face Harry fully, placing the magazine on the bed behind him.

“There was something like a ‘ding,’ which happens why you get to a stop, and the noise of other people and the carriage moving on the tracks. It’s all the same as the Underground. They were pulling into a station,” Harry said excitedly. Ron seemed unsure.

“But Hermione wouldn’t do magic in the open like that,” he said. Harry frowned at him.

“Well, maybe she did it in a way that wouldn’t be seen. It was a newspaper clipping we got, so it probably wasn’t obvious.” Harry deflated a little at Ron’s lack of enthusiasm.

“But why would she be on Muggle transport? If she’s in London, she would be easy to spot. There’s loads of Ministry folks around there.”

“Maybe it wasn’t in London then,” Harry conceded. “But that noise is definitely some kind of train system.”

Ron continued to frown and the door swung open.

“Oi!” Ron yelled as Ginny walked in. “Have you heard of knocking?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said and sat next to Harry on the cot. She bounced a couple times to make it squeak and raised her eyebrows at Harry. “Do you sleep alright on this?”

Harry just huffed a little laugh, and itched his scar absently. If she only knew the night he had had.

“’Cause, and don’t take this the wrong way, you look a bit awful.” She reached up and tucked some of the longer hairs of his fringe back towards his ear, running her eyes over his face and frowning. He self-consciously turned to Ron as he felt his cheeks start to heat up, and flattened his hair from where she had moved it. Warmth coursed through him, followed by an equal measure of nausea, which he hoped didn’t show on his face.

Fortunately, Ginny had stopped studying him and lay back, propped on her hands so she was leaned slightly into Harry’s side as she asked, “So what’s all this about Hermione?” 

Ron stopped fiddling with the corners of the magazine and accusingly barbed, “Nosy much?”

Ginny dismissed that. “Hardly nosy at the volume you talk. The walls aren’t exactly soundproof.”

“Or paper-thin,” Ron retorted with a scowl. Harry smirked at their exchange but trained his eyes on the gray sky through the window.

“So where is she?” Ginny rephrased.

“Dunno, Harry says it sounds like some Underground.”

“Yeah, but why would she be traveling through Muggle cities? I thought she was trying to help the Wizarding World.”

Ron shrugged, but his face creased with concern again. “I suppose there’s other places than the Ministry, if she went to another country...but, nah. She’d of told us if she were going out of England, wouldn’t she?” 

Harry did not think that Hermione would have, but said nothing.

Ron sighed and pulled his legs up so he sat cross-legged on the bed. “I wish I knew what she was up to. She said she was coming up with a way for us to talk, but that could be days from now.” Ginny frowned, but nodded understandingly at her brother.

“Was that all she said in her last note? Just some train noises and she would talk to you soon?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Ron replied. “It came on a clipping, but I don’t remember anything but that it was some ad with a woman.” Ginny opened her mouth, about to say something, possibly of a scathing nature about the vague details, but thought better of it. They lapsed into silence.

Meanwhile, Harry continued to think deeper on the bruise on his back, which Ginny was currently unknowingly rubbing her hand over. It was supposed to be a comforting gesture, he was sure, but it made Harry feel guilty for keeping his dream a secret from them. It just didn’t seem to be the right time to mention it.

“You know what might take your mind off of this waiting?” Ginny finally said. She stood then, walked to the desk, and picked up a box of cards. “Exploding Snap.”

After a few rounds, the three of them were laughing and groaning over the game, and although none forgot the world and its problems, they allowed their responsible thoughts to fade into the background.

***

Voldemort strode through the Ministry of Magic, the charm to ward others away firmly affixed to his person as he swept through the glossy halls, brightened by light fixtures inset into the walls every few feet. He glanced through a hall window, and observed the tall spiral of offices that faced down into the Ministry’s Atrium. The windows were so numerous, and stretched so high above, that it gave the illusion of an indoor city. His destination was up there, somewhere.

 _Tedious,_ a voice in the back of Voldemort’s mind sneered. He agreed, suppressing an irritated sigh as he walked on.

It was all tedious. If he did not have his long, immortal life, he would be far more furious that it took a small miracle for anything to be done without his explicit instructions.

His followers were not known for their initiative, of that the Dark Lord could be certain. Even now, it took his considerable sway to terrorize his subordinates to mobilize. With the war all but officially called, there were instructions for the Magical community to follow, and listed changes that they could expect. That core difference from the necessary surprises of war made his well-laid transition of power far less complex for the citizens, simple sheep that they were. 

One might think that Lord Voldemort was not as terrifying to the public anymore because of the information that was being fed to them, although he certainly had heard no rumors of that ilk. 

Voldemort almost sent a stubby wizard, his nose shoved deeply into a large stack of papers, into the wall with a wild violence for nearly stepping in his path. Visible or not, the Dark Lord did not stand for lack of respect.

Up and up he travelled, until he reached his destination floor. Voldemort smirked as he thought of Lieutenant’s reactions were he to claim an office up here, right next door. Voldemort would never do it...but some thoughts were worth the experience of having.

Voldemort banged Lucius’s door open without preamble. The blond man violently jumped where he sat behind his desk, and looked quite shaken as he stared with wide eyes at the open doorway. Slowly, Lucius grasped his wand, where it lay on the right side of his desk.

The Dark Lord considered toying with him, but closed the door with a loud click and removed his disillusionment charm. Immediately, Lucius’s hands fumbled with his shirt and fly as he shot to his feet. In his haste, he banged his knee beautifully on the underside of the desk. 

As he stumbled around the edge of his desk, the man concealed his grimace of pain, for which Voldemort was slightly satisfied. The last thing he needed was wasted seconds with Lucius Malfoy, who sniveled enough over the last few months to warrant all of the insults that had been lobbed his way. 

Still, he somehow had not lost his touch in the political arena, since reinstated to his board positions. Voldemort had heard good things trickle through his reports. The back-channeling his Lieutenant was known for had allowed for swift movements for new legislation. For that, Lucius would be allowed a reprieve from punishment. At least for the moment.

“M-my Lord,” the man said, clearly stunned by his Lord’s sudden appearance. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit here?” Lucius finished shoving his shirtfront into his pants and fell into a half-bow. His behavior was tentative and flustered, like a wild animal in search of escape, or a child in fear of retribution for an act of which they had yet to be reprimanded. 

Voldemort wanted to scoff, but he really did not have time to toy around with his Death Eater. Since he had succeeded in making contact with the boy, sooner than he could have possibly imagined, he was one step closer to getting him back where he belonged, no thanks to anyone but himself, as usual. However, there was a piece to the puzzle missing.

“Has Bellatrix been in?” inquired Voldemort, shoving the thoughts of Potter to the back of his mind.

“Bella-ah, no,” Lucius said apprehensively, straightening up and tucking his hair behind his ear; it was his nervous habit. 

Voldemort just tsked and strode about the room at his leisure. Perhaps he _could_ make a little time in his schedule to intimidate his Death Eater. Especially one already so primed and riled up. He casually slid over Lucius’s thoughts and found the delightfully repulsive reason as to why he was so frazzled.

As Lucius watched him, his pale eyes darted about nervously, especially when his Master approached the desk.

Voldemort ignored this behavior, though he was relishing the discomfort caused by his mere presence. 

“The vote, then?” Lord Voldemort donned his innocent, inquisitive tone as he feigned interest in a trinket on the shelf next to a large, hung painting. He could practically hear Lucius swallow in fear, unable to see his Master’s expression, though he should know by now that there was nothing to be read there.

“It’s—It’s coming along. A few more members of the lower party and—”

“A few?” Voldemort cut in sharply. He did not need to face Lucius Malfoy to know that his blood was frozen and he was staring at his Master’s back with petrified eyes.

Voldemort turned his attention to the large oil painting next to the shelf. He watched the two-dimensional sailors as they struggled against the stormy seas and sheeting rain, their ship in a perpetual state of nearly breaking apart as it was tossed around within the bounds of the frame. The artist had done well in depicting the sailors’ expressions of distress as the lightning struck at intervals over their plight, illuminating the scene of devastation. 

He wondered if this painting had always been here or if it had been chosen by his Death Eater. He wondered if slicing it down the middle would jar Lucius. Voldemort decided it was not worth the theatrics. He turned back to his follower, and Lucius seemed to straighten more. 

Ah, he was expecting violence. It was good to keep him wary.

“What time is it, Lucius?” he spat.

Predictably, his Death Eater’s eyes widened in surprise of the mundane question, clearly wondering if he should answer. Voldemort allowed impatience to flood his face.

“Time, my Lord? Uhm,” he scrambled to get his wand and whispered a quick time spell. “Two thirty-two, my Lord.” Voldemort just stared at him, long enough that Lucius started to sweat.

“And at what time does the Wizengamot re-convene?”

Confusion flitted across Lucius’ face. “The next full assembly is not until next Tuesday, my Lord.”

“Then you have until then to get me my votes,” said Voldemort dangerously.

Lucius seemed frozen again, but a cursory sweep of his mind showed that he was thinking of panic and a list of people to threaten. Good enough.

“Will it be done?” Voldemort asked impatiently.

“Of course, my Lord.”

“I do not want to get involved. Do not make me do your job for you.”

“No, my Lord.” Lucius fiddled with his wand, almost nervously. 

“Is something the matter, Lucius?” Voldemort asked sharply, knowing full-well that the other wizard’s thoughts had migrated once more to his desk.

Lucius started and shook his head. “No, my Lord.” Merlin, it was like pulling teeth.

“So you have not heard from Bellatrix,” Voldemort mused as he circled back. “How about Greyback?”

The other man smirked, but caught Voldemort’s furious glare and became instantly uncomfortable.

“No, my Lord. I have no seen him since before our assignments were given.”

“And do you believe that he will deliver results? I mean a _location_ , Lucius. Is this objective too difficult, too much for a group of experienced politicians and mercenaries to locate a _boy_?” he seethed. Lucius flinched. Voldemort almost cursed him.

“Do you think,” grit out Voldemort slowly, “that Greyback’s group should be involved?”

Lucius seemed to give it an honest moment of thought. “I do believe, my Lord,” he said carefully, “that they are practically-suited for this particular task.”

“Practical,” Voldemort mused, and hummed thoughtfully. “Tell Bellatrix I want a report soon. Results,” he leered, “would be preferable.” He let the threat hang in the air, and kept his expression unreadable as always, but Voldemort was not holding onto much hope for results to come through from the bottom. He had to do everything around here. Lucius said something deferential and bowed.

As he turned to leave, Lucius still in a half-bow, as though he was afraid to stand up straight and be a wizard, Voldemort decided that perhaps another warning to his follower might drive him fully into action.

“It is shameful that your least-gratifying quality of cowardice has rubbed off on others.”

“My Lord?” Voldemort met those grey eyes and they partially averted, fearful. Still a disgrace, after all. Maybe he had been incorrect and Lucius had not actually regained his spine.

“Do not be such a worm,” said Voldemort darkly. “Should there be a next time, the girl will greet me. It would be a shame to turn your playthings into corpses.”

Lucius’s face burned, and Voldemort swept from the room before the woman could decide whether or not to emerge from underneath the desk and face Lord Voldemort.

He sincerely did not have time for this.

Casting a spell for the time, he noted there were only five hours left until nightfall. It would take time to slip into state, too. So, only four hours to carry out his business. It sincerely made his blood boil to think he was arranging his schedule around the boy.

He thought of Lucius fiddling around rather than carrying out orders, and _may the mercy of Lord Voldemort help them all_ , he had better hear good news by nightfall.

He glided through the Ministry halls, this time not disillusioned, too viscerally annoyed of people at this point to bother.

As he went lower into the Ministry, and further to his goal, the hallways rapidly emptied. Word seemed to spread quickly in whispers: _the Dark Lord is here, within the walls of the Ministry. Walk about at your own discretion._

Down and down he went, the hallways reflective and silent but for his own quietly shifting robe. 

Turn after turn to the courtrooms, and then further still. It was like his mind was on auto-pilot as his feet took their sure strides to the place he had been a handful of times over the past month, and many more before. Much of the Ministry was mentally mapped from his endeavors of over two years ago, but it was important to know all the paths of your enemies, and so he strode through the Ministry as though he were the keeper of all of its secrets. Or at least the holder of all of the most interesting ones.

He took the final corner into a dead-end hallway, lit by sconces because of the age of the place and the lack of prominent visitors traipsing through. Voldemort was less interested with grandeur and more impressed with places which housed greater knowledge and power. To that effect, no place in Magical Britain was more interesting than the inventions hall in the Department of Mysteries.

Voldemort seemed to stand taller with every step, his spine straightening ever more, as he approached the hooded figure by the door at the hallway’s end.

When he reached the door, the guard simply turned and tapped her wand against the door. Blue lines pulsed in a circle around the tip of the wand and the door slowly swung open.

They were admitted into another lengthy hallway that seemed to lead nowhere. It was a trick of course. Voldemort was privately satisfied that they took security and traps so seriously in the Department of Mysteries, now. It was, of course, still no issue for him to break in, but for anyone else...

They stopped halfway down the seemingly endless hall—an illusion—and Voldemort’s escort waved her wand. A translucent wall appeared, its magic whispering deadly warnings. It shimmered and broke into six hexagons. The hexagon pieces shrank in turn, starting with the topmost ones. The pair had stopped just before the black-tiled walkway ended into a great abyss. The hidden wall would just alert that a person had passed through it and fallen to their death.

These traps were all rather new precautions, implemented after the last time the Department was entered through less-than-orthodox means. Voldemort was using the proper channels now.

The boy would have been only fifteen then...his mind far more easily-manipulated than now, unfortunately. It had been difficult to gauge just how much of that event in gathering the Prophecy was also a game Voldemort had manufactured to test Potter’s alleged prowess. At the time, it had been almost interesting to watch Potter square-off with Bellatrix, too. Although he had not expected the boy to succeed in casting the Cruciatus, there had been a moment where...it had sparked a certain curiosity.

Hateful boy...an actual thorn in his side when it came down to it. At every turn, he was only a interested in sullying Voldemort’s chances to make change. The Dark Lord had had to turn to extreme violence over that next summer, to reestablish evidence that his power was the same ever-growing strength that had come to be feared. 

He resisted clenching his hand into a fist. Lord Voldemort was feared, and respected. He owned the Wizarding World. 

Voldemort stood even taller as the last of the translucent hexagons shrank just above the sharp drop-off. He glared over the ledge as a ring of doors appeared before them, slowly following each other in a circle.

Ah, yes. This part had not changed.

A glossy floor appeared, and covered the abyss. Together, they stepped forward into the center of the doors. His escort swirled her wand in tight circles, the point aimed at the darkened ceiling high above.

One door separated itself from the circle and drifted towards them. His escort took a large breath, and Voldemort noted with irritation that it was a sigh of boredom. The other doors floated up to the ceiling, and his escort swept her arm forward, a gesture that Voldemort could head through the door before her.

They entered a large, well-lit lab with high ceilings. Individual workbenches lined the majority of the room, with cloaked Unspeakables bent over their projects, observing and making notes. The air here always smelled of Muggle electricity, metallic and charged.

Voldemort did not bother to look closely at any of the work tables, instead heading directly to the far end of the room. A hooded Unspeakable sat in front of a bland table, the ends stacked with papers, and faced him as he approached, clearly in wait of their appointment.

The Dark Lord did so enjoy when others were early to meetings like these.

Unspeakable Abby Comet sat calmly, her hands folded in her lap. Patient and unflinching as he drew closer. He would never understand these people, and perhaps that was a not a bad thing.

Intelligent and tight-knit group though they were, Unspeakables seemed to be a different kind of Ministry worker. So far in his dealings and interactions with them, especially throughout the past year, they held a great sense of pride in their work and secrecy, and a refusal to be persuaded through his normal means. Despite his attempts to gain favor or intimidate, he had been unable to get a firm hold on their actions. 

Fortunately, though, the number of Unspeakables in the lowest floors of the Ministry were not enough trouble to try to strip autonomy away from them. They seemed to deliver results, all whilst they sincerely refuted his attempts to dictate the means. 

It was subtle resistance. Always subtle. If it were not for the fact that he had no better alternative at the moment, he would unleash absolute hell to these underground lab rats.

“Unspeakable Comet,” Voldemort formally inclined his head, fully invested in giving his best performance in the role of a visiting politician. She did the same, and when she sat up again he could see the reflection of the lab lights in her eyes under the hood. They were glossy. Emotionless.

He had not as of yet been able to decipher if she was not fazed by the Dark Lord because she actually did not care about who he was, or because she knew that as an Unspeakable she was somewhat useful. Voldemort only grudgingly admitted that any of them held use. Perhaps the free-reign of research funds and taboo magic lended itself to her natural inventive side, and the success of the Tapper had built her confidence amongst her peers.

“May I be so bold as to immediately ask for your report?” he politely requested. Beneath the surface, he loathed this part of their partnership—the asking.

“Of course,” replied Abby, and turned away from him with a swivel of her stool—he felt a pang of irritation at her disrespect, that she should turn her back in such a flippant way, but knew curses would be less than helpful here. He needed to raise himself above responding to petty infractions against him. In any case, there was no one of consequence in the Department of Mysteries to witness the slights against him. 

The Unspeakable spread out three pages of paper on the surface of her worktop. She withdrew her wand and touched the tip of it to the surface of the middle page. 

Holograms sprang up, growing in golden light to depict a web of connected images. Most notable of the images were the Dementors—strange-looking with their ghostly shapes outlined in gold—and a line of people from a bird’s-eye view, whose magic was drawing from them in glowing balls to add to the threads of a large, overhanging tapestry. It was all miniature versions of the real things, of course, and he had already seen this diorama. Irritation and impatience started to flow heavily in his blood. 

“Very intriguing presentation, but I am sure you are aware I am here for more than a sideshow act,” Voldemort said shortly.

Abby paused, the holograms still drifting slowly above her worktop, before launching into her progress brief. 

“The Tapper’s subjects majorly come from heavily populated areas throughout Britain, with a correlation of being one-point contacts to the Ministry. That has aided us in keeping registration totals up to expected levels.” The Unspeakable spoke with a factual air, confident and rote, as she was no stranger to presenting her research to Lord Voldemort. 

“We will keep the re-registration campaign in effect until we reach eighty percent,” she continued, “and then send personnel out for recall of missing Magicals.” For the briefest moment, Abby glanced to the glowing golden holograms of the diorama. _Pride_ , Voldemort noted.

“Currently, forty-percent of known Magicals have been drawn into the Tapper’s lines, which are now heavily interleaved and almost indistinguishable from individuals, lowering the threat of dismantlement.” Voldemort’s eyes never strayed from what he could see of her shrouded face all the while she spoke, taking in the information as he sifted for any deception.

“The results have been promising for the goals we have set,” the Unspeakable said in a leading tone. “One couple has gone to St. Mungo’s for unexpected Magical depletion. We are monitoring their records, and will do damage control, if necessary.” 

She paused here, as an obvious opportunity for Voldemort to jump in and offer his opinions on the current trajectory. 

He had nothing to add to the damage control, nor did he mind that the Tapper was working as planned. It was fine if the population knew there was something unsettling afoot, though they probably would not guess at registration being the actual cause. Their wariness of the unknown could even be beneficial. It would aid in the deterrence of opposing him, and force any Order supporters to relapse into silence or be silenced. The sooner their deference was achievable, the better. 

The opposition had already fallen out of being a threat, and he had not had to lift a finger for the past month to do so. The resources of his party could be drawn more heavily into the future of the Wizarding World, which was exactly where its efforts belonged. 

Voldemort could feel the seconds slink by. There were few things he hated more than wasted time. 

“Ms. Comet, I am on a rather tight schedule.” 

The Unspeakable only inclined her head toward him in acknowledgement. She was so unerringly polite, even when he was point-blank with his demands. She was always prepared, and ever the professional. 

It was another grudge he had against the Unspeakables, in general. 

They were intelligent and useful, but they lived in the shadows, and he could ultimately offer them little, besides more paths of access to the work they sought to complete. Sequestered as they were away from Ministry auditors and the light of day, they only cared about how to ease their collective way.

“We will continue on the path previously discussed until it no longer suits your purposes, sir.”

He suppressed his tenseness at her disrespect. It was noted that Abby Comet thought she had an ounce of leverage on him. One day soon, though, when she had outlived her direct usefulness, Lord Voldemort would remind her that she was nothing. 

He gave a polite inclination of his own head.

“It is appreciated,” he said tersely. They both straightened.

Abby swiveled away from him again and picked up a stack of papers from one of the piles on the end of her table. She swiveled back, depositing the stack into his waiting hand. 

“This is the full report of the Tapper, with a redacted list of names and blood statuses should you like to see the correlation—”

“Redacted?” Voldemort interjected sharply.

“Yes, sir,” Abby said with patience.

“And where might the full version be? I assume you maintain detailed records of all parts of this endeavor, to the present hour.” He could feel his temper slipping, as he gripped the stack of papers she had given him tightly. Her eyes drew slowly down to the bent report in his hand. He made no effort to relax, and he clenched his jaw to not act on the violent thoughts that jumped forward.

“Of course,” she said, far too simply. Apparently she was going to leave it at that.

“Ms. Comet, do you wish for the Ministry to cut funding to this Department, and reevaluate its involvement in conjunction to control over this?” he hissed through his building fury, raising the report in his fist in a slight brandishing motion. “I would be more than willing to put that recommendation to paper.” 

There was a moment that passed between them, in which the Unspeakable remained seated, her face lowered to be hidden in the heavy shadow of her cloak’s hood. He supposed silence was an answer, even if it was a defiant one. 

“I would keep your loyalties in check,” he snarled lowly.

“Of course,” she said in a calm tone. There was a whiff of ferocity in the calmness, and it mixed acutely with the lab’s metallic atmosphere. 

Voldemort held no doubts that the Unspeakables worked for the Ministry first, with little regard for who was in charge—even if that wizard was the Dark Lord Voldemort. This was a fact that he had assumed in interactions during previous visits, but never with so much bold evidence as now. Voldemort could feel the animosity rolling off of her.

As a test, he pushed forward on her mind, but the Unspeakable flew to her feet, and her Occlumency barriers were perfection in blocking him. Of course they were. That kind of steel-trap mind was a requirement for working here.

She said nothing, but breathed a little more audibly than before. He withdrew the mental pressure. 

That had been a power-play, and a childish one, but there were few things that he could openly do at the moment without completely breaking favor with them.

Voldemort could tell that the other Unspeakables throughout the lab had stalled in their work and were paying close attention to what was happening in the far corner of the room.

“I expect cooperation when I come calling in person,” whispered Voldemort, tilting his head minutely to the side so that only she could hear him.

“You have it, sir,” Abby said evenly, if not a bit tensely. Her chin raised slightly.

Voldemort’s eyes scraped a path along her jaw, tilted to the light now. Her hood had jostled slightly back when she had shot to her feet to fend him off, and it now shifted back enough for him to see the golden reflections of the blueprint holograms ghosting in her eyes. Furious emotions indeed, but buried. Interesting.

“Good,” he returned, in a matched tone. He placed the report in his inner robe pocket under a secrecy charm.

“Keep up the excellent work,” he said, a touch louder, for the eavesdroppers. “The Ministry commends your efforts.” Empty politics. He hated these people.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” It was never ‘My Lord.’ Always ‘sir.’ Her subtle insubordination vexed him so.

Voldemort strode back through the lab, towards the door and his escort. As he moved through this time, his eyes swept around to see that everyone was either back at work, or otherwise pretending to the best of their abilities. He passed a black curtain which covered a side-room. 

Without breaking stride, he focused on the details of the room as it flashed by—several gold instruments, magnifying glasses, and crystals were laid out on the workbench top. It didn’t appear as if anyone was in there. Before he could look any further, the curtain jerked closed. Of course they would use a Prying-Eyes Charm.

Voldemort suppressed his curiosity as he met his escort at the door, who bowed to him. He did not acknowledge the gesture. The Dark Lord had had enough of these people for one day.

They returned to the dark cylindrical room and repeated the process of manipulating the doors. In the hallway they had started from, Voldemort strode from his Unspeakable escort and made his way, ever upward, to more familiar and populated floors. More and more people scurried out of his path as he went, which refreshed him from the tedious disrespect he had had to deal with in the basement levels.

Black robes flowing fluidly with his swift movements, Voldemort strode past many employees who bowed and shushed each other as he passed. One day, the Unspeakables would learn the same. He would not be out of power any time soon, if ever, now. They needed to learn their positions were reliant on him.

He finally reached the black-glossed hall that led to the Atrium. The occupants he passed shuffled swiftly out of his path. Their heads were down, or their eyes were otherwise averted, as he strode purposefully to the Ministry’s entrance. Perhaps the only thing that bothered him was that their deference was out of fear, rather than respect.

Voldemort Apparated back to Malfoy Manor and shut himself in his study. He stared unseeingly at the wide, ornate pattern on the rug as he paced along the bookshelves; he sat, his elbows pressed to the desk, and paged absently through a stack of memos that had appeared for him to look over, ever more decisions to be made. Nagini was gone, probably sulking upstairs in his absence.

The Dark Lord waited for night to fall, and was heavily invested in clearing his mind, over and over again, allowing only blankness to sweep in. Patience was allowed to grow, because patience was the ultimate form of control. It was a skill he sometimes lacked, especially when faced with something like what he was about to do. 

The clouds rolled in and darkened the space even more as night grew. 

He sank to deep meditation. It was difficult, but he was Lord Voldemort, and the only obstacle that caused him grief was Harry Potter—and the boy was a nuisance at best...hardly a challenge.

Yes, Lord Voldemort had surmounted much worse. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and counted his breaths. The study was silent. Eventually, he clasped onto the soul within himself and drew a line to the others.

***

_Just say it._

Harry had been amping himself up in the bathroom for the last ten minutes to tell Ron about the vision last night. He had already decided against mentioning the bruises. They couldn’t be helped, but he was so anxious to fall asleep without anyone knowing the seriousness. What if he could be possessed over distance? How far did this go?

He whispered a string of swears to himself, slowly pacing the tiles and feeling more stupid by the second.

“Just go out there,” he mumbled quietly, “and ask for a potion. They will ask why and you can just say it organically.” Holy shit, he was going to pass out. Harry gripped the sink and begged his body to stop freaking out. 

It was the exhaustion most likely. It was making him paranoid and bringing out thoughts of worst-case scenarios. Several times already, he had tried to convince himself that the Weasleys did not mind having him here. 

He countered that with the hypothetical of what if a psychopath came smashing through the roof? They might think he wasn’t worth the trouble then!

Harry grasped his hair and stared at the bathroom ceiling. He knew he was acting crazy, even as he mouthed to the ceiling to ‘ _calm the fuck down’._

“Okay,” Harry said to himself, taking a calming breath and reminding himself to act like a person, if he couldn’t act like a wizard. He knew weird magic existed, but it always seemed that the weirdest kinds always happened to him. He smoothed his hair down several times, abjectly not looking in the mirror, and finally opened the door.

Harry quietly headed down the dark hallway towards Ron’s lit room, when Ginny intercepted him. He jumped as she materialized out of the shadows he had not been paying attention to.

“Hey, you,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he said, and regretted it as her face immediately clouded with concern.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Nothing. Erm, do you have any potion for Dreamless Sleep or something like that?” He realized he had said the wrong thing, as the words left his mouth.

“Have your visions gotten worse?”

“Er, something like that,” he fidgeted with his shirt, suddenly feeling awkward that they weren’t taking advantage of this time, as she had obviously been waiting for him as she had the previous night. “Can we go to Ron’s room. I need to talk about something.”

“Sure,” she said, with such genuine care he felt his stomach guiltily plummet like a stone. He was bringing this onto them. Why did his life have to be so damn complicated? 

Ginny rubbed his arm and steered him to the lightened room and closed the door. 

Ron sat up, sensing the seriousness as Harry stood awkwardly against the wall, suddenly feeling as though he was about to get accused of something. Merlin, he was stressed.

“Erm, I’ve got to tell you something.” There. First part done.

Ron glanced nervously between Harry and Ginny. 

“What is it, Harry?” Wow, they definitely were siblings...the question had same inflection and everything.

“I—er—haven’t been sleeping,” admitted Harry. A flicker of confusion appeared on Ron’s face. “Last night I had a vision and it was pretty, er, intense. Very real.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ron asked sympathetically.

Why didn’t he say anything? Harry didn’t think it would go over well to respond with, ‘I didn’t want to burden everyone with my problems that I can never seem to handle myself’.

“I don’t know. I—” Harry looked at the floor and shook his head. He felt Ginny’s hand return to his arm and give an encouraging squeeze. “I just didn’t want to talk about it.” He said the last part through a stressed laugh.

Ron frowned. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. 

“Here, why don’t we sit down?” Ginny said, and pulled him over to the cot. The two of them waited patiently for Harry to speak, and he really didn’t like the pressure of the silence that fell around them.

“Yeah, so, er, he showed up,” Harry fumbled. Merlin, it made no sense why this was so difficult to get out. “And he said he knew I was alive and he wanted to know where I was and stuff.” 

_And he called me a masochist and threw me around._

“But he didn’t find out?” Ron was now sitting forward on the bed, with his hands clasped between his knees. 

Harry shook his head. “No, I woke up in pain and got some more potion and then stayed up the rest of the night.”

Ginny rubbed her hand in circles on his back, and Harry got the urge to shrug her off. He didn’t, of course, but he still felt really anxious. It was probably the sleep-deprivation.

“I don’t know if we have Dreamless Sleep,” said Ginny, dropping her hand away, “but you could always take more pain potion if your scar has been bothering you. Maybe we should bring Mum in on this.” Ginny turned to her brother when she said this. Ron looked at her, scandalized.

“Are you mental?” he said in a hushed voice, as if Mrs. Weasley were right outside the door. “Mum would freak out if we told her You-Know-Who was sending Harry telepathic messages.”

“He said he isn’t sleeping, Ron,” Ginny said sharply, louder than Ron, but still keeping her voice down.

“I do sleep,” Harry cut in, suddenly more miserable now that his worries had been realized. He had brought up the dream knowing very well that no one could do anything about it. 

“But every time I wake up I feel like I haven’t,” he explained. “Like, at all. I just feel more tired.”

“He’s wearing you down, somehow,” Ginny stated matter-of-factly, and he nodded. She had pieced that together faster than he had, and moreover, it was strange hearing her affirm it. 

“How long has it felt like this?” she asked.

“Since the other night I escaped.” He bit at the inside of his cheek.

“Oh, Harry,” she said sadly. Ron’s frown deepened. Immediately, Harry felt even worse.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it. Please?”

“Mate...” Ron looked like he was about to move over to him, but stayed put.

“No, sorry I brought it up. It was probably just a bad dream. I’ll figure it out.” He hadn’t meant to tack on that end bit so bitterly.

“Harry,” Ginny scolded gently, but Harry didn’t want to hear it. 

“Please, let’s just all go to sleep. It’s late. I’ll...just try to sleep, and hopefully nothing will happen.” He shrugged exasperatedly. Ginny and Ron shared a worried glance, and Harry realized he didn’t like that it felt as though they were about to decide something for him. Or about him. 

“I don’t know what else to do, otherwise,” he quickly admitted. “I can’t stay awake forever. Even if it does no good to sleep, it feels worse not to.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk to Mum?” asked Ginny, worrying her lower lip. 

No disrespect to Mrs. Weasley, but Harry knew that that was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

“No, Gin. I don’t think that that will help, no offense.”

They all sat there with their own thoughts for the next long seconds.

“Well,” Ron started, “I could always wake you up like I did at school. You were usually thrashing about, when this stuff happened, uhm... I don’t know if that’s helpful or not,” he finished with a mumble. At the look both Harry and Ginny were giving him, he said, “I mean, if you were able to see what You-Know-Who was up to. I don’t know if that’s good or not.”

“It was less of what he was doing, and more like he was just there to ask me questions. He’s a right git about being ignored,” Harry muttered. It was a version of the truth.

Ron looked scandalized. “That’s bloody terrifying.” Harry nodded.

“You talked to him, but nothing happened,” reasoned Ginny. “If he could reach you, wouldn’t he have come here already?” Ron whimpered a little at that and Ginny shushed him. 

“I mean, Harry,” and she took his hands in hers so Harry was forced to turn toward her, “do you think he knows how to reach you past that? If it’s just a vision, or a dream, it can be confusing but it can’t really hurt you, outside of that, right?” Harry had dropped his eyes long before she had finished her sentence, but as she ran her thumbs over the tops of his hands, guilt surged up, and the bruises felt like they were burning holes in his shirt. 

_Just tell them._

Even as he thought it, he felt like there was a solid wall at the top of his throat, stopping the words from coming out. He looked up at Ginny, and pulled his hands gently out of hers with a weak smile.

“You’re probably right,” he lied. There was nothing they could do, anyway. 

“Do you want me to stay here until you go to sleep?” Ginny offered, and Harry’s cheeks burned as Ron pointedly busied himself with straightening the covers of his bed.

“Thanks, Ginny,” he said quietly, as if a lower volume could alleviate the painful awkwardness radiating from Ron. “I’ll be alright.” He retook one of her hands—so soft and warm, it was unreal—and gave it a single squeeze.

“Okay. I’ll be right down the hall.” Her brown eyes bored into his, like she could read his mind, and knew he was hiding something, and somehow didn’t judge him for that. Maybe that was the real amazing part of her.

After she had gone, Ron and he settled into their places. Right before he reached over to put out the light, Ron asked warily, “You sure you’re fine? I can stay up a while.”

Harry felt the guilt again. Why was he here, putting his friends in danger if this did turn out wrong?

He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“It’s alright, Ron. I’m good.”

“Night, Harry.”

“Night.”

In the following darkness, Harry could swear he could hear his heart pumping blood through his body, he was so anxious. 

It would be fine. He stayed very still to keep the cot from creaking, and succumbed before he was aware of it, sinking past the surface of his whirling mind into the shallows of his subconscious, and then deeper still. He felt as if he were being pulled through still, dark waters; it was unknown, but there was nothing to fear. 

As Harry’s mind slipped even further down, some curious semblance of himself ghosted into a green and gray fog, mildly illuminated from within like a bizarrely enticing beacon. Far above these layers, his eyes continued to dart under his eyelids, but almost at once, his breathing evened and the rest of his body went slack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this journey with me. It’s fun.  
> Leave a comment if you feel like it.   
> Hope you thought the duel perspective was interesting, I was taking that for a spin.   
> Get ready for what you think is coming next, even though I do believe you have no idea what is coming next...or at least how it’s going to go down.  
> Take care of you. Much love, xx.


	12. No Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through this chapter I almost named it The One Where They Sit and Stand, A Lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, hello, and welcome to the next chapter!  
> Enjoy.

He felt him enter, like a gust of wind from an opened door. So he watched.

Harry Potter appeared like a bird flying out of a fog, his black hair standout against the illumination that grew around him as he came into being. Then, there he was.

There he was.

Potter seemed startled, but must have expected Lord Voldemort, tonight. The disorientation swiftly faded from his green eyes, and was replaced with a thin, but hardened, resolution. 

Still, the boy could not hide his apprehension.

“Hello, Harry.” Measured, calm, and commanding—control was a necessity. Voldemort sat in the green wingback chair that he conjured in the center of the space, and though his unblinking gaze remained on him, Potter did not shrink away.

 _Bravery_. It would seem he never would unlearn that particular trait.

“I hope you do not think it rude that I have no seat for you, Harry.” His eyes flashed in warning, but the boy did not move from where he had appeared against the far wall. He was furtively glancing around, and had not yet acknowledged the Dark Lord in full.

That would not do. 

The walls pulsed a bit brighter, before Voldemort tamped his impending temper. 

“You must be tired,” announced Voldemort, and his raised voice thrummed dully through the space. At his words, Potter’s eyes locked on Voldemort’s. 

A steady glare and his _full_ attention, at last. The Dark Lord was a touch appeased at that, so much so that he instantly leaned back in his chair and settled into leisurely mannerisms. 

Potter’s eyes were like spotlights, brighter than the light of their surroundings, or just far more entrancing as they shrewdly examined him.

“Why concrete?”

Voldemort blinked, the only show of his confusion that escaped. Potter waited.

The boy would explain himself; Voldemort had patience enough for that.

After receiving no answer, Potter gestured around widely, a slight bewilderment to his actions, before he emphatically repeated, “Why concrete?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed further at Potter’s accusatory tone. A trick, some sort of trap, surely, to gain information. Even as he quickly processed over every angle, the Dark Lord affirmed his conclusion that Potter was simply asking the wrong question.

“It is not,” he said tightly.

Potter slapped the wall twice in response, as if testing its integrity, and Voldemort inhaled sharply in annoyance at the thrum that passed through him.

“Sounds pretty solid to me,” the boy stated flatly, as if it were his agenda to be as jarringly obnoxious as possible.

Fine. He would play along, since Potter had initiated.

“You are so very often sold on inaccurate ideas,” Voldemort stated steadily. “Have you given any thought to our conversation?” Knowing Potter, he surely would have opinions on the previous evening.

The boy immediately opened his mouth to answer, as though the words had been ready the since he had entered, but his breath seemed to catch at the top of his throat. Potter clicked his jaw shut after a second, and effectively cut off any brewed thoughts. Voldemort watched his Adam’s apple work.

“Yes?” Voldemort carefully covered his irritation.

Potter shrugged after a moment. “It’s nothing,” the younger wizard said. _The liar._ “I am curious about this place, though.” 

Voldemort followed Potter’s eyes as he appraised the blank cube. “A single room... Are you just not imaginative about the cells you want to keep me in? I would say you’re a”—he glanced at the ceiling again—“pretty decent prison designer...but I think even prisons have more than one chair.” Potter raised his eyebrows at him expectantly, but Voldemort was caught on one word.

_A cell..._

The Dark Lord felt his jaw flex as he considered the pros and cons of correcting his Horcrux on his lack of reverence. This was, after all, the inner lining of his unintentional soul piece. In here, it was as vast a world as Potter could want it to be, though he could not possibly fathom the opportunities, misguided as he was about the Dark Lord’s intentions.

Voldemort searched Potter’s face several times before he decided that he did not need any details confirmed, lest he get any ideas on how to abuse them. Severus had said that Potter lacked the talent and focus for Occlumency, but Severus had also been playing a long, traitorous campaign against him.

Instead, Voldemort allowed a simple scoff to escape him. “If you were more amenable, I need not attempt to cage you.”

“Yeah, sure,” the boy muttered. His attention turned from Voldemort again as he ran his hand along the wall and watched as the light sparked under his touch and danced away around the other three walls like a lightning strike. 

Voldemort’s eye twitched slightly as a sensation coursed through his arm, and he sought to draw Potter in another direction.

“I mean what I say, Harry,” he said as evenly—as _sincerely—_ as possible. “Join me. The Wizarding world will move forward, with or without you. It’s better to be on the inside of change.” Voldemort’s eyes focused intensely on him, expectant. He even slunk forward a little in his chair, using the psychology of closeness to his advantage.

Predictably, the boy overreacted at once. 

“Oh, yeah,” Potter drawled, and Voldemort had to suppress a very strong urge to fly forward and rip out the offending tongue as recompense. “I’ve heard that one before.” 

The younger wizard set his jaw as if he were making a point, before he continued. “I’ve also heard about your new—” Potter cut himself off, but Voldemort’s eyes flashed in anticipation. 

When the boy restarted, it was with deliberately slower speech, and without eye contact. The floor was absorbing that now, to Voldemort’s irritation. 

“I’ve heard...what your changes are doing to people.” The walls’ white light flashed in his downcast eyes in a most interesting way. He did not have glasses here, but did not seem to notice. 

“It isn’t as if one day you will listen to anyone else, anyway.” 

Doubtful, thought Voldemort. Other people hardly said anything worth knowing.

“Especially about how to sway people over, or, er, the means to.” Potter nodded to himself before he drew his eyes back up into Voldemort’s face. Whatever the boy saw there, he did not like, because his calm gaze hardened and his lip curled in disgust.

Voldemort felt his own animosity rise.

“You’re a talented liar, Tom,” spat Potter. “You can hardly stand to have anyone in your way. Maybe no one told you, but I will. Intimidation doesn’t gain loyalty, just a fragile version of it.”

My, he looked so smug. Voldemort itched to curse that barbaric expression off of his face. 

“It won’t work out in the end. It”—Potter stuck his tongue in his cheek as he scoffed—“ _never does_ work out for people like you.” 

A striking, accusatory silence followed.

Voldemort was not impressed. Clearly, Potter was holding back, pushing an invisible boundary until he knew the limits of his environment. 

Interesting, indeed, to have that kind of restraint, given it was just the two of them. It was not usual for a Gryffindor...but, grudgingly, Potter was an unusually intriguing person, especially over the last month...to a regretful degree.

Still, Voldemort would wait and see how far the Gryffindor dared to tread. Beneath his layer of ever-present anger, Voldemort was perhaps even looking forward to it.

Though the fierce urge to strike the boy remained, Voldemort snidely inquired, “Is this _vitriol_ from the esteemed Harry Potter?” 

Potter’s face scrunched, but said nothing in response. 

“Perhaps you hold the view that I can be struck down with words...or do you cling to the misinformed notion that my actions can be heeled with your precious emotions and moral beliefs?” Voldemort’s vision unfocused a little, his anger so vicious it almost overtook him, and the walls dimmed. He focused again.

Potter’s brow creased deeply and he pushed off the wall, taking two furious steps forward before remembering himself, remembering who he faced.

“I’m telling you,” Potter growled at him, “you haven’t won.” 

Such big words, and nothing to back them.

Voldemort’s eyes flicked over him. Pitiably, Potter seemed unsure of what to do with his hands, as they flexed next to his thighs.

“Relax,” soothed Voldemort mockingly, as he leaned back in his chair. “I was merely asking.” As the boy opened his mouth again to surely retort, Voldemort raised a hand to pause him.

When he complied by closing his mouth, Voldemort managed a praising smirk. Though, it hardly quelled his desire to whip Potter with some condescending remarks—or an actual switch.

“I understand that we have our differences in tactics,” Voldemort stated gravely, “but the war is over. Our community is fractured, on the cusp of enlightenment and change. We need unity, Harry, not dissonance.” 

There. Voldemort had now offered an olive branch Potter would surely decline.

Potter opened his mouth to gape at him for a moment and just sighed. He looked away from the Dark Lord once more.

 _Such_ restraint. That would not do. 

Voldemort nearly swept forward and grasped the boy’s chin to pull it forward and face him, but he held onto his composure.

“I just want to ensure you are getting the most up-to-date information, Harry,” he assured, making a bid for a more purposeful subject. “I only wish to tell you the truth of the matters at stake. I cannot, in good conscience, have you making decisions while being ill-informed. It sounds as though the people you are staying with—and you do not have to deny it—are feeding you false hope. Perhaps even acting as though I have not nestled into every home of what was previously the Order of the Phoenix.” Voldemort scanned Potter’s face as he spoke and watched as Potter swallowed, a nervous habit of his. Aside from that quirk, though, he did not give anything away.

Frustrating.

Potter shook his head, his eyes trained on the dim floor. “This isn’t a game you will win. I may be with people. I might not. I’ve moved around quite a lot the last few days.” 

That had to be a bluff. All the same, Voldemort settled so his elbows were on the rests and his hands were steepled in front of his lips. He stared at Harry Potter and waited.

For a considerable stretch of time, they sat and stood in familiar silence. Then, the boy paced, and watched the lights wave and bloom in reaction to his actions. When Potter brushed against the walls, an irritating shiver ran through Voldemort. It was effort to mask, but Voldemort was a the perfect parody of a church gargoyle, and he had patience enough to await the fluttering bird to come near enough to prey on.

The Dark Lord could tell the boy was attempting to put observations together, so he met any glance in his direction with cold blankness.

Eventually, Potter seemed to become bored and leaned fully against the wall. The action sent his wild, untamed hair skittering over the soul membrane. 

Under the constant contact with Harry’s consciousness, the Dark Lord’s arms flared with goosebumps beneath his cloak, and the walls pulsed as though they breathed. Voldemort fought the reflex to close his eyes.

Such a hateful situation. So much so.

He was still working hard to monitor and control any reaction that surged through him when Potter crossed his arms and rolled his shoulder against the wall. He grumbled something unintelligible, but Voldemort willed himself to hear the words clearly.

“You’re wrong to steal power like that,” the boy muttered. “Magically suppressing the people who don’t agree with you.” Potter puffed out a light scoff to himself. “Fucking arsehole.”

Something snapped. The Dark Lord had had enough. The compounded vexations of the day exploded to the surface and his mind swirled with a vengeance against the boy standing yards away, whose consciousness was Magically ensnared in his soul. Voldemort had been carefully not taking advantage of that, wanting to sway him, persuade him. 

It was the _disrespect_ he could not stand for.

Swiftly, he stood and encroached on Potter, who, eyes wide and wary, leaned further into the safety of the wall.

Let him try. There was no safety here.

As Voldemort swept towards him, Harry bodily turned into the wall. He wasn’t cornered, he had learned very early on in his youth to never willingly place himself in a room’s physical corner, but there was a serious lack of escape routes.

_Shit._

“There it is again,” Voldemort seethed, eyes roiling like an emerging lava flow. “That knowledge of just slightly too much, and the manners you lack to express it.” 

Harry’s eyes widened a hair and then narrowed, as he turned himself to stone and allowed his courage to surge over his fear.

He was surprised to hear his voice come out so confidently as he challenged, “We can talk about what I know, but you first.”

_You first._

The words seemed to echo around the space, but Voldemort didn’t stir or acknowledge it, so Harry didn’t either.

The Dark Lord was paused, a statue with live-wire eyes. For just an instant, Voldemort was still. Then he unfroze and blinked once, in a deliberate, unspoken command that Harry should take his words back.

Suddenly, a recklessness rushed through him, so intense he felt dangerous, despite the man towering over him.

“I want to hear you admit to what you’re doing to the people you seek to lord over,” Harry said scathingly, pushing past all ideas of consequence. “I want to hear from your mouth that you’d let it be done to you.”

Voldemort’s eyes glimmered beneath the surface, frightening in how deeply they probed, as if Harry was an insect beneath a magnifying glass. Harry could only guess at what the other man was seeing, but it unnerved him, and so he sought to throw the Dark Lord’s attention away from dissecting him further.

“No, of course not.” Harry put on his best sneer. “You can’t stand to believe that you’re anything less than special. Though, how special could you be? You can’t even find me.” Despite the thrill that ran through him that that was the wrong thing to say, the most dangerous point of contention to hammer on, Harry lifted his chin defiantly. His ghostly reflection was almost visible in the direful eyes above him.

“I warned you once before not to flaunt your advantages,” came Voldemort’s deadly whisper, the only warning he would give. 

A hand shot up and held Harry fast by the throat. Harry choked and felt his blood vessels expand around his temples. 

“Do you know why?” he said quietly, and Harry’s stomach plummeted, cold.

Over his struggles, Voldemort leaned in close to his ear, and pressed more weight into the column of his neck. When the Dark Lord spoke, it was with a tender softness, his voice a silky contrast to his violence. 

“It means I have to show you evidence to the contrary.”

Even as Harry tried to fruitlessly wriggle away, he knew the wall behind him had his head trapped.

_Fucking brilliant._

Voldemort’s grip was unyielding, but Harry’s hands had still reactively flown up to try to aid him. With great effort, knowing he wouldn’t win this battle of strength, Harry forced himself to drop them away.

At that, the Dark Lord pulled back a touch and took him in—surely red in the face as he struggled to breathe. Harry could only pour out the hatred within through his furious glare.

The hand around his throat was unmoved, but Voldemort smirked with an annoying challenge in his ruby eyes. His nostrils flared and Harry tried to gasp, but only managed a rattling intake of air. He tried to calm himself, but, knowing just how damaging injuries in this space could be in the waking world, he was having a difficult time focusing.

“Find you if I _can?_ ” tsked Voldemort, and his slitted gaze glided across Harry’s face several times before resting on his eyes again. “My, how arrogant you are.” 

Their faces were now so close that they almost touched. Harry’s eyes slid closed and his heartbeat pounded in his ears and the hand at his neck continued its firm hold.

Just as he nearly fell to darkness, the hand released him, and Harry gasped a little at the freedom, his eyes open once more. Blood rushed through his head so swiftly that his vision dimmed, and before Harry could do much more, he was bodily pressed against the wall, surrounded by Voldemort’s cloak on all sides, so everything was darkened, and even the illumination at his back was swallowed into the inky fabric.

The man boxed him in, pressed solidly against his front, and Harry nearly jumped when lips ghosted across his forehead.

“Surely you must know by now, Harry,” whispered the sinister voice, “that I am nearly there.”

Harry’s eyes slid closed again, this time overtaken by a rush of calm, despite everything.

“Just give into your fate. I have you. I _own_ you. Location is just a present detail. It does not alter the truth. There is nowhere for you to go where I will not follow.” 

As the Dark Lord spoke, a cold hand wrapped around the back of Harry’s neck, and it rubbed a shaky, bastardized version of comfort there. Against any conscious will, Harry leaned in and rested his forehead to the collar of the man in front of him, weakened by some energy that pulled him along.

“Eventually,” the voice whispered possessively into his hair, “you will flock to me of your own accord, capitulate to me. You will recognize me as your Master, your Lord, your salvation from a life of misguided ideals. I can show you the way to greatness, Harry. We can go there, together. Just tell me—” 

The lips paused against his hair, as if the rest of the sentence had been lost in transmission and the frenzied passion that had been building in Voldemort’s voice fizzled to nothing. 

“ _Tell me._ ” A simple command, diverged from the passion since gone, the monster’s tone now prevalent over the tenor. What had been soothing, turned sour, and made Harry’s skin crawl.

It was as if two separate people were talking to him. One was Voldemort, the politician, the philosopher...the other was Voldemort, the selfish, narcissistic murderer Harry had come to expect over the years.

Harry stood, stunned to stone, as the chill of awareness crashed over him. He was very cognizant of his face pressed into the fabric-covered chest of the possessive lunatic above him. Above all, confusion reigned in how he had allowed him to get so close.

Blinking rapidly, broken from his trace, he regained himself, and pushed against Voldemort; the man relented to move back a few inches. 

With a set jaw, Harry prepared himself for the most treacherous of waters he was about to tread. There was something odd, familiar, and menacing about this cell of strange illumination, and Harry did not like that combination one bit.

“I thought we were going to talk,” said Harry civilly, looking at the black robe before him. It was easier to be appeasing while he couldn’t see the Dark Lord’s face.

After a beat, Voldemort simply hummed, but backed further away. Harry glanced up to see his red eyes trained blankly above his head, thoughtful.

“Let us talk, then.” The Dark Lord now stood next to the armchair, poised as though he were about to have his portrait drawn.

Harry’s mind was blank of conversational topics. He resisted rubbing the front of his neck, which was drawing his attention after being so roughly handled.

“Allow me to make this easier,” the Dark Lord said, ignoring Harry’s hesitance, stepping towards him again. Harry stayed where he was, wary.

“You consider yourself to be a soldier, correct?” Voldemort stopped before him and leered down. He barely waited for an answer. 

“Then why are you not fighting me, right now?” he whispered conspiratorially. The Dark wizard straightened up to his full height and looked down at him. 

Harry hated the stupid, smug superiority that contorted the reptilian face, but he managed to keep his voice even when he said, “I’m just watching. Waiting to find out what you really want out of this.” 

Faux-politeness, but politeness all the same.

As Voldemort tilted his head to the side, Harry sarcastically amended, “Except for me, of course.”

They stood, mere feet apart. Close, but not enough to be a serious, non-dodgeable, threat. 

Voldemort inhaled sharply as he looked toward the ceiling. Harry traced his eyes along the neck before him, exposed, inviting a strike that would never come. Harry wasn’t stupid. 

Why _wasn’t_ he fighting with Voldemort, though? He hadn’t given it much thought until the other man had mentioned it. Verbal barbs, sure, but Harry supposed he was nervous to piss off the Dark wizard, here. Wherever the fuck ‘here’ was, in the subconscious room of dancing illumination and entrapment.

When the Dark Lord lowered his head to stare pensively at him, Harry snapped out of his thoughts. Voldemort looked so disappointed.

“You see,” the older wizard mused, as he slowly slunk into the small gap between them, “this is where I find such great fascination. I have carefully hidden all of my endeavors over the years, protecting the details to ensure success at every turn, but this plan is rather plainly written.” 

The red of his eyes practically glowed, coal-like and treacherous, inherently disturbing. “Since our sweet encounter at the beginning of May,” he closed their small distance, “my only want...has been _you_.”

Harry found himself paralyzed at his words, like a rabbit near a snake hole, and Voldemort peered at him, watchful and predatory.

“What—” Harry breathed out, dazed by the radical admission. It was the confirmation of his biggest worries. 

For if Harry was the Dark Lord’s sole concern—a fact he had denounced repeatedly in his visits—then he would stop at nothing. No one would be safe to turn to. Voldemort would drag the world’s population to their knees just to find Harry standing among them.

“It will be all right,” Voldemort continued, unfazed, as he drew impossibly closer. “If you let me know where you are, no harm will come to them. Though, if I have to retrieve you, I cannot say the same. You alone have the power to save them. I believe that you know this already, so I can say with ease that it is pointless to resist.” The red wells of his eyes glittered mercilessly, as he hissed out the last of his words. 

“Why you continue to tempt the limits of my good grace and patience remains a mystery.” 

This was his retribution for stupidly antagonizing the Dark Lord. Harry looked to the walls to quell his growing panic. It helped a bit, to look away. 

“I may not know everything, but I know you don’t mean what you say,” Harry stated, his eyes narrowed into the renewed glow of the walls, a sure reaction to his words.

The longer he was here, the more he understood that this was Voldemort’s space, and it was reactive, like the glass bulb of his imagination. 

He felt brave enough to face the Dark Lord again. 

“I know you will kill,” Harry said, shakily taking a breath, “anyone who stands between you and whatever you want, no matter what I do.” Harry returned Voldemort’s condescending look, and pressed on. 

“People hate you. They’ll turn on you, even if you think that you have them in submission. _Especially_ then.” 

For a second, he thought Voldemort might hit him. When he didn’t, Harry shoved back his wariness. “You’ve given me advice that you think I should follow, so I’ll give you some of my own.” 

“Enlightening though I am sure that would be, I am not asking for your advice, Harry,” drawled Voldemort. “Fascinating though you think you are, this is a tedious errand for me. Do not force me to come to you. I have achieved navigation into my soul this way in a supremely short time of experimentation. What do you believe will happen to the state of my control over you, should this continue?” Voldemort leered at him, but Harry’s mind jammed on what had just been revealed.

_His soul._

_Of-fucking-_ course _that’s where they were. Inside_ _Tom Riddle’s bloody stupid soul._

A deep, burrowed rage began to surface from within him.

“That’s it,” Harry scoffed. His jaw twitched. “You see, that’s just it, right there. You only care about control—over me, over the Ministry, the country. What happens when you have it all?” Harry outstretched his hands. “Will you have a plan then? What does an ideal world look like to you—people bowing and having you in their every thought? Why should they do any of that, especially for _you_?” he spat. 

Voldemort glowered at him, but Harry was shaking in anger.

“You’ve done _nothing_ to earn their respect, and you’ve done everything to earn their fear. You have done damage to yourself and your side by surrounding every plan you make with terror. Hell, under it all, you don’t even look out for you.”

Voldemort was a statue. Blank and furious, seething beneath his stoicism.

“Enough of them will get fed up,” warned Harry, feeling he only had moments left before the tension broke like an overstretched rubber band. “One day there’s going to be enough who oppose you, and you’ll be old news, last week’s scrap-paper. Your tactics won’t work anymore. Then what?” 

Voldemort stared at him a long moment. 

“You really believe that,” the Dark Lord said, incredulously dismissive. Though his eyes swam with undiluted hatred, his voice was light. “Informing others of the cause of their fears _is_ a form of respect, for the record you are obviously keeping.” 

Harry half-rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He saw Voldemort creep forward in his periphery and the growing anger within him surged forth. Instinctively, he took all the rage by the horns and threw everything he had straight at Voldemort, and sliced him right down the middle. 

The Dark Lord was blown back, fizzled like a light passed through a shadow, but he reformed just as quickly. 

Harry snarled at him, but his next attack missed, slicing the upholstered chair, instead. Tufts of cottony stuffing stuck out amongst the loose threads of torn fabric.

Breathing heavily, Harry suddenly felt extremely taxed. 

The far-more sinister effect that this soul-room possessed seemed to finally be showing itself, and Harry had a bad feeling that his short-lived takeover would have serious consequences.

As wooziness nearly overcame him, Harry swayed, and caught himself on the wall. The room spun, and he glimpsed Voldemort’s livid eyes. 

Succumbing to delirious confusion, Harry leaned away from the bright, bloody scarlet that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. 

He stumbled to the side, and crumpled to the floor, the room at an unnatural tilt.

While he attempted to get his bearings, Voldemort appeared in his line of sight, crouched down to his level, and grasped him by the hair. Harry gasped out reflexively as his throat was tipped steadily backwards.

The Dark Lord stared deep into his eyes, and Harry found he couldn’t close them. In a panic, he reached up and grabbed at the arm that gripped his hair, but his hand only clutched weakly against the skin, and he felt faint, like his energy was being sapped.

Voldemort drew him up, and walked them back until Harry’s head and back hit the wall. Harry hissed as the pain behind his shoulder renewed. Voldemort hadn’t released his hair, and he was forced to stare into his eyes—vibrant, edged with mania and a slight desperation. 

Harry’s eyelids flickered, almost able to close. 

Then, it was a strange hell that began around them, as the walls became hot like the sun. In the following candent glow, Voldemort’s skin became more and more pale, and as Harry yelled out, trying to separate his body from the heat, the space rumbled violently. 

Voldemort released Harry as if he had been burned, and Harry, though rattled, automatically threw his hands against the heated wall to support himself from sliding down it. 

“Return to me,” Voldemort demanded, but he sounded short of breath. 

The walls were pulsing, and the two wizards’ forms were in stark, crisp contrast to the light. 

“No.” It took a lot to say that one word. Harry’s chest hurt, and he winced on his exhale.

“May you never perish, so that I have opportunity to take my time with your punishment,” Voldemort growled, but Harry wasn’t listening as he slowly sank to the floor. 

Squinting through the light, he saw Voldemort glare at him from behind the restored armchair, his hands clamped its high back. 

Harry’s head wobbled side-to-side against the slowly-cooling wall, massaging the back of his scalp.

“I’ll never give in to you,” he slurred, his limbs heavy. “I can’t. There’s”—he grimaced as a renewed bout of fatigue nearly overtook him—“too much at stake.” 

Voldemort scoffed at him. “Nothing you need to protect anymore. All of that is finished. Accept your role with grace, as everyone else has.”

Harry continued shaking his head; he found he could do little else at the moment.

He twitched his fingers, where his hands lay on the floor, and stared at the lines on his open palms. “I don’t know why I’m even...trying to talk to you,” Harry mumbled, shrugging sloppily.

“Every time, I think I may be able to reason with you,” Harry frowned at his own voice, which sounded distant, “but you don’t want to be reasoned with by anyone, unless it follows some, ah,”—he winced—“predetermined path you have for them.” 

He sighed, worn, and squinted at the ceiling. 

“You know, you should actually try to care about what people say, sometime,” he grunted. “Their ideas may surprise you.” After that, Harry tried to focus on his breaths and ignore the other man.

Voldemort just stared at him—Harry felt the press of his eyes—and though it was with a disinterested, belittling look, Harry didn’t wither under it; he was stronger than that, no matter how drained he physically felt. 

Eventually, Voldemort responded.

“How very noble of you to ignore how the world actually is, as though any one of those so-called surprising individuals could want to become invested in my ideals for any reason but their own gain.”

Harry wanted to roll his eyes with how exasperated he was that Voldemort missed his point—because _of course_ he did.

“Perhaps the crux of our problems lie in that ignorance you hold so dear,” Voldemort continued, his tone scathing. “I am disgusted to witness your views, but much more so to entertain the possibility of them.” 

Harry exhaustion ebbed away at those words. His brow furrowed and his fight returned to him, as though he abruptly fed on some different energy. 

Unsure how he managed it, he pounced to his feet, and rushed forward, taking the Dark Lord by the front of his robes and shoving him into the far wall. Instead of surprise, Voldemort simply smirked condescendingly at him. 

“ _Any_ problems we have are squarely _your_ fault! Don’t drag me to your level,” Harry grit out, practically shouting, punctuating his statement with a shove of his fists into the Dark Lord’s chest. He wanted to erase that smirk, but it just became more pronounced.

Voldemort, sardonic and irritating and completely at ease despite Harry’s attempts at intimidation, replied easily. 

“I do not think that ‘any problems’ is a fair statement to me. Have I caused the strife between the world’s many competing countries? Perhaps you think I am also to blame for all the Muggle wars, and past Wizarding disagreements that have stretched a millennia and caused unfathomable damage to communities. Of course, I must want for children to go hungry at night, and for domestic disputes to have unsavory endings. I admit I hold influence, Harry, but as you have stated numerous times, not everyone is on board with my ideas. My, exactly what are you are implying, that I am a god among men? I surely know so, but it is rare to hear it confirmed by others,” Voldemort mused, his crimson eyes boring into Harry’s.

Harry shook with rage, but Voldemort ignored him, and continued. His tone shifted from light and mocking, to scornful and angry.

“The world falls around our ears, in disarray, begging for someone to put it right. I have taken up the challenge no one else would, Harry, and I take responsibility for my actions. I doubt you could say the same. You so often pin blame where it does not belong, for misfortunes that have rightfully fallen upon people—your so-called _friends,_ even—for the actions and sides they have willfully taken. In reality, they dodge their responsibilities because they disagree with the consequences their choices bring. People _lose._ Others gain. I did not believe you to be so naive to need this explanation.”

_Deluded. Fucking. Liar._

Harry was livid, his words boiled inside of him. If his pounding heart was an illusion here, it was a perfect imitation of reality. Then again, Tom Riddle had always been a master of deception, for his own purposes. 

Voldemort seemed to think Harry had been silent long enough; perhaps he mistakenly took Harry’s silence for a lack of things to say. How far from the truth; Harry wanted to hurl verbal abuse, but it all seemed to jumble on his tongue in a chaotic swarm.

“Do you feel in power, Harry?” Voldemort sneered down at him, at his hands balled into his cloak. “In control, manhandling me? What shall you do next, now that you have your quarry? Shall I prepare for one of those ‘surprising ideas’ you mentioned?” Those molten eyes mocked him, even as Harry’s lip curled.

“You’ve only ever been a complete git to everyone you’ve met,” Harry growled reproachfully, in a voice so deep it vibrated his chest. His hands instinctively curled further into the robes. “Worse than that, you gathered people to support your stupid ego and fucked the world up because you could.” 

He wanted to _burn_ this man beneath his hands, but his words were steady, and they harbored the promise of retribution. It would have to do. “So say whatever you like, because actions speak volumes, you bastard.” 

He threw all his menace into his glare, up into those cold, slitted eyes. The veins of his neck pulsed painfully. Harry was in control, but he didn’t know for how much longer. 

“I’m a better person because I _choose_ to care about the world I live in,” Harry snarled, so ferociously it was animalistic to his own ears. “I’m a better person because I _choose to be one._ ”

Harry’s grip on Voldemort’s robes tightened as he shoved into him harder. He wanted to snap his ribs, to take the Dark Lord’s blackened heart in his hands and squeeze it until it popped. He wanted to grind the man to dust beneath his fingers, but the walls glowed brighter, and just as suddenly as Harry’s strength had returned, tiredness sagged into him, and his hands unwillingly slackened. 

With a last faint push into Voldemort’s chest, Harry released him, and backed away, far out of reach. Keeping his eyes on the Dark Lord, he startled when he backed into the armchair.

Fantasy-like or not, this situation was all real. All of it. The danger was real, and he had just viciously provoked it.

Voldemort regarded him from the far wall, unmoved from where Harry had pushed him.

“You are an unimaginative, predictable evil,” Harry breathed. “You practice the same cycle of control, because it has suited you in the past. But there’s no balance of opportunity under your oppression,”—the walls illuminated so immediately Harry felt frantic—“and I believe the world needs to be released from under you, one way or another. For the good of everyone.” 

Voldemort only chuckled mirthlessly in response. Harry’s brow furrowed. 

“The greater good, Harry? My, perhaps I should give Dumbledore more credit in his poisonous sway over your mind.” His eyes flashed in time with a lightning strike of illumination that ran around all four walls. 

“It’s not _that_ greater good,” Harry tried to say venomously, a flat attempt to bury his apprehension beneath a layer of bravery. “It’s just a greater scale of what that goodness can look like. It’s not for you to decide.” He leaned into the chair back for support.

Voldemort strode forward, but Harry held his ground. “What shall you do, my Horcrux? Continue to run and hide...or will you openly campaign against me?” He searched Harry’s eyes. 

“I wish you would,” Voldemort whispered earnestly. “I would show you exactly how much I know about what the Magical public wants to hear. How _desperate_ they are to be persuaded. How they long to not be trusted with the direction of their own lives. They live to be controlled, to have _purpose_.” The last vicious word was swallowed into the air. Voldemort’s eyes glittered as the walls dimmed to gray.

“You should know,” Voldemort said softly. “After all, I have already given you your purpose.”

“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” Harry stated, trying to block out all meaning Voldemort was trying to inflict on him. 

A long pause traveled between them, and Voldemort stared at Harry’s scar, exposed from when he had pulled on his hair. 

“Yes, that is correct,” he finally answered, meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“Then you’re just waiting on when to strike?” 

The Dark wizard scoffed lightly, and blinked. “No,” he answered, with an almost serene honesty. “No, not quite.” 

“I bet you hate that,” Harry said quietly. He knew he was correct, from the way Voldemort looked at him with a slightly tilted head.

He repressed a flinch when a white hand raised and gently dragged through the hair above his ear. It was difficult to ignore the possessive intimacy in the press of those fingertips against the side of his scalp. It was so real, Harry felt like he was losing his mind.

“Soon.” That word left the Dark Lord’s lips, thrummed through Harry, and anchored like a vow. Wildly, he looked to Voldemort, but the Dark wizard just returned his look with a steady, unreadable one.

Silence reigned for a long while, with more force than it was entitled to. The walls pulsed in a steady pattern, like a slow heartbeat. 

“I feel our time is drawing to a close, Harry.” Voldemort swept by him, and his robe brushed along his arm. 

Harry was struck then, by just what was so unnerving. The Voldemort who had been so desperate and vicious in his attempt to capture Harry was completely at odds with this more subtle version of the Dark Lord. He was purposeful, but unbothered—like Harry couldn’t get a real rise out of him, or he was determined for that to not happen. 

Aside from the two times Voldemort had lashed out, he had been oddly subdued—no, not quite subdued. More like...patient. He had, after all, not tried to thrash Harry after he had swore, and put his hands on him. 

Harry had definitely been punished for those kinds of things before, and yet...Lord Voldemort was holding back.

“You’re calm.” Harry stated, staring at the far wall’s gentle shift between illuminating and darkening—a contributor to the charade. 

He turned, and rounded the chair where Voldemort was seated once more. It was the casual pose, the still posture, the sure focus that kept Harry on edge. 

Harry decided to test the other man’s patience, to try to provoke his real meaning out. If their time here was ending imminently, then this was the last chance he had to gain information from Voldemort. If that was true, then he was hellbent on contradicting whatever Voldemort had hoped to achieve here, if he hadn’t already.

Harry took a step forward, took in those watchful eyes and the tilt of the head, the slitted nostrils that didn’t flare.

“I remember everything you said in the beginning,” Harry said cautiously, his quiet voice barely shaking. “And if you have it in your mind that you will have me _endlessly_...You had better get used to disappointment.”

Voldemort didn’t move, but his nostrils twitched and his eyes lost their focus. The Dark Lord had mentally gone somewhere else for a moment, but when his eyes refocused, they couldn’t contain their hateful heat. 

Voldemort shifted to sit up straight, and rested a hand against his temple, as though casually considering him. His attention was anything but casual, though. Despite how the Dark Lord wanted to act, Harry saw the way Voldemort gripped the armrest with the hand that wasn’t pressed to his cheek.

Perhaps he shouldn’t mince words. 

“If you capture me,” Harry spoke solemnly, a near whisper, “I won’t stop until your soul is gone, until every last shred is destroyed.” 

Voldemort violently swept to his feet, all calmness dropped. Through a thrill of fear, Harry matched Lord Voldemort’s wrathful stare as best he could.

“You do that, Harry,” Voldemort hissed, so aggressively that Harry’s arms exploded in goosebumps, “and I will show the world just how successful my offensive strikes to the heart of rebellion are.” His pale brow raised in earnest, daring Harry to challenge him.

“I have shown great mercy and restraint until now,” he continued, “but I still view bloodshed as an option I am _very_ willing to consider, in my assurance of complete control. I have already achieved subservience. I have already achieved mastery of the political structures in place. Still, there are always ways to accelerate the agenda.”

Voldemort was practically hissing as his threats poured forth. “I can be ruthless, or I can be merciful. I have chosen mercy...for now. _”_

Harry swallowed, but kept his eyes hard. Voldemort seemed not to even notice that Harry was taking a stand. 

“You are not a threat, Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord confirmed. “Do not overestimate your position because I lend an occasional privilege to you, and have told you your predestined worth.” He looked pointedly at him as the walls glowed harshly, but as Harry’s eyes slightly watered, Voldemort’s eyes widened, crazed. 

For as furious as he was, Harry didn’t know why the Dark Lord didn’t touch him.

“Do you want to hurt me?” Harry whispered baldly. He wanted to put everything in the open, wanted the Dark Lord to unravel from this sinister calmness. “Just now?” 

The corners of Voldemort’s lips quirked up in such a sudden fashion that Harry was slightly taken aback. “I think you know the answer,” he whispered back, his slitted eyes wide and daring. 

Harry closed his eyes, just to collect himself. 

“Does your scar hurt?” the voice floated so close to him, but Harry only squeezed his eyes tighter. He shook his head; his heart raced.

Perhaps intimidating the Dark Lord within the bounds of his own soul should not have been his goal.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

Inhaling, Harry replied, honestly. “It hurts all the time, ever since you have come back—it means nothing, just bloody irritating.” He opened his eyes, to see that Voldemort’s were an excited swirl of amusement.

“I must be close,” Voldemort confirmed. With a last quirk of his thin lips, he swept away, returning to his chair.

“I feel your unforgivably trivial emotions all the time,” Voldemort announced, “and I have dissected them to only find that they are filled with people who can be expelled from this life, easily.” Harry swallowed. It had to be a bluff. 

_He can’t read your mind, not from a distance._ Even as he thought it, Harry wasn’t certain. After all, he had trapped him here. The Dark Lord was known for committing the impossible.

“It does not have to be that way, Harry,” Voldemort said over his once-again pressed fingertips, “I only ask that when I do find you again, you care enough about them, in that useless, time-consuming way you do, to be mindful of my soul. Should it be in any danger at all, I know exactly how to avenge it. Those irretrievable sections you have destroyed, I have forgiven,” his eyes darkened. “But this,”—he gestured to the room—“for your sake and theirs, shall never be harmed.”

Harry said nothing, but he was biting the inside of his mouth in distress.

“I am not a monster, despite everything you think,” Voldemort said with a too-deliberate air of reasonability. “I am ambitious, and a politician who has circled this world to understand the breadth and possibilities of magic and power, and it is my wish to spread the important knowledge of it to our community, and the world, at large. I require your understanding of that, and for you to internalize it as you so carefully did with the words that I said in our beginning.” Voldemort’s eyes were alight, back to their bloody crimson. Harry was frozen in place.

“They remain true, and those are my intentions. Lord Voldemort keeps his word, where it counts.” He looked at Harry sympathetically, and the sincerity of it all—the false sincerity—disgusted him. Voldemort was specifically counteracting Harry’s earlier words.

“Understand that, Harry, and know that everything I do for this world is also for everyone, because no one else has the ambition or the will to go as far as I will. Lord Voldemort has no limits. Understand that, my Horcrux, and know that it is the reason for all that I do.” 

So disgustingly earnest, it was the most perfectly crafted threat. It wrapped politically-formed reasoning for his murderous ways, and the means to his own ends. It was sick.

A frisson of something that felt like hatred, but not quite, ran through Harry, but then it was gone, slipped away as suddenly as it had come. 

The message was so expected, and yet the sincerity of it all threw Harry off, because the tone didn’t match—so calm, measured, instructive.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, as confusion and anger warred. Harry was feeling quite tired—this place, there was something cathartic about it, even though Harry knew he had to be riddled with anxiety. He truly didn’t feel himself anymore.

The walls dimmed. 

“Realize that the longer I have to wait, the less of my patience I have to spend on your childish game of hide-and-seek. It serves you to give in, just as it did in May.” 

Harry barked out a laugh, and stared at Voldemort with as much disgust as he could.

“You know, I like the touch of it’s-my-fault-if-you-murder-everyone, if I don’t give you what you want. It really rounds out your angle, doesn’t it, to pin it all on me and my conscience?” 

Harry huffed another laugh. “You’re so petulant,” he muttered, shaking his head. He began to pace again, feeling the eyes on him as he walked. 

“It’s like you never really grew from that little kid who hid stuff in the closet, because it was a game to you, to take from other people.” Harry stopped walking, and drew his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“I’m not going to be one of your trophies, Tom.” 

He turned and watched as all amusement instantly drained from Voldemort’s face.

“Then you will bear the consequences.” It was a sudden answer, as though Voldemort was just waiting for the confirmation. 

With that, he was gone, blinked out of existence like a Vanished item.

The chair remained, but the walls were dimmed to a dark grey, as if someone had switched off a light. 

Then the walls closed in, sliding soundlessly toward the center, the crowded space becoming darker and darker. A slow fog began to form, and it was dark-grey and green, and swirled all around him. 

Harry felt distorted and confused, like he was losing an important train of thought.

The fog curled closer and closer, but there was no illumination peeking through and guiding him in any direction, now.

Harry inhaled sharply, a sudden thrill spiked through him, and he was immediately very awake. He blinked several times, and patted his hand along his torso, as if to assure himself that he was really there. He felt his hands press against his ribs and shivered.

He looked at Ron, sleeping as soundly as the previous night.

Harry threw the sheets back and bounded over to him, shaking his shoulder hard.

“Ron, wake up.”

“S’matter? Harry?” Ron groggily blinked up at him.

He seemed to sense Harry’s distress because he propped himself up on his elbows and wiped his eyes. “Wha’s wrong?” he garbled out. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. Ron squinted up at him, before leaning over to flick on the light and sit up.

“What’s happened?” he asked more clearly.

“I’ve just woken—I mean, I’ve had a dream with Vo—” he stopped himself, “—him. You-Know-Who.”

Ron’s eyes scanned over him, distressed.

“What’s he found out?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. It was one of the longer conversations we’ve had. He was—calmer, somehow.” Harry realized he wasn’t explaining it well, and felt a phantom grip on his throat.

“Let’s get Ginny,” said Harry, heading for the door, having no desire to repeat his story.

“Should I wake Mum?” Ron’s question stalled his hand on the doorknob.

“I—not yet. I need to tell you what he said. I don’t think we’re in immediate danger, but I don’t know if—” Harry broke off, with the realization that his head wasn’t hurting. His scar was silent.

When he snapped out of it, he saw Ron had his lip between his teeth as he studied him. 

“What!” Harry snapped, making Ron jump at the harshness.

“Harry, mate,” Ron looked stricken with concern. “I’m just worried about you.” 

Harry felt like his body was filled to the brim with stress, and he couldn’t breathe properly, like he might burst any moment from anxiety coursing relentlessly through his system. 

He had no idea what to do, and that thought pounded through him, making him freeze-up in a way he had rarely done so before. 

Shit. Fucking— _Shit_.

He struggled to keep from gasping out as a sharp pain coursed through him, as if the whole of his experience with Voldemort had finally caught up to him. 

His scar, silent no more, exploded with white-hot pain, and he buckled to his knees.

***

Lord Voldemort paced his study in Malfoy Manor. He was very close to torching the walls just to watch them melt. He held it together. With a twitch of his hand, he lit a roaring fire in the grate, and called for Lucius and Bellatrix. 

He called all of his scouts back. They had been at the Order members’ residences long enough. 

Harry Potter had to have been near at least one of them, whether they were aware or not. The boy was with one of his miserable friends, he just knew it. 

Potter had let slip about the news he was getting—details that could only come from someone in contact with the heart of Wizarding society.

The papers? He controlled all of them, and none had printed anything where Potter could infer what he had about the Tapper.

When the scouts returned over the next minutes, Lord Voldemort would force them to give their reports, and comb through every detail in their useless minds, until no stone remained unturned, until there was a lead he could pursue.

He was not taking chances with possible incompetence anymore. Now was the time.

Harry Potter would be recaptured. Today. 

As the fireplace glowed green, and ash whooshed out of the grate, Voldemort turned a burning glare to the first of the newcomers, and began his interrogations.

***

Ron retrieved Ginny and she flurried her hands over Harry in worry. She went to get the now-familiar pain potion for him. Ron, his fist clenched against his jaw, stood by and watched. Harry had played enough chess with the other boy to know that his friend was strategizing.

Harry startled when Ginny brushed her hand along his throat. “Harry, it’s red,” she said worriedly.

He felt his face color a little, nervous. “Ah, yeah, we—er—kind of got into a fight.”

“We—you mean You-Know-Who?” Ginny looked scandalized. “ _He_ did this to you? How?”

Harry pushed past her, and tried to see his reflection in the window to see the extent that she was panicking over. He sighed when he couldn’t see much in the pane. Faced away from his friends, though, he felt like he could speak more freely.

“I don’t know how he does it, exactly, but what happens to me in the dream translates to the real world.” He almost mentioned the bruise on his back, but he didn’t need to give them more to be concerned over.

When he turned to them again, the coolness of the early morning hours creeping through the glass at his back, he saw they were both staring at him.

Ginny was biting her lip, and Ron was swaying side-to-side in thought, his arms still crossed.

“So, what do we do?” Ron finally asked, dropping his fist.

“We tell Mum,” stated Ginny, her eyes still locked on Harry. Ron frowned at his sister but looked to Harry, who gave a nod. 

Ron was out the bedroom door quickly and they could hear the soft knocks on a door down the hall, as he quietly woke his mother.

Harry fidgeted under Ginny’s scrutiny as they stood in silence. Awkwardly, he moved his hand to rub the back of his neck, but shivered as he remembered who had last touched him there.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say, speaking to the floor.

“Don’t be stupid,” she stated quietly, holding her elbows, like she was afraid to approach him. “We’re the sorry ones.” 

Harry’s eyes shot to her brown ones, so earnest and protective. 

“We wish you weren’t hurting, that you were safe, even here.” 

He opened his mouth to say Merlin only knew what, but Mrs. Weasley rushed in. She pulled her robe around her and tied it hastily about her waist as she swooped to where Harry stood by the window. He clung onto the window sill behind him with both hands.

“Harry, dear,” she said pityingly, but as though it were a great relief to see him alive. 

Harry wondered what Ron had told her, because she checked over him like he had a limb missing. Her eyes roved over his neck but she said nothing, just gave him a small, nervous smile. 

With the three of them in the cramped bedroom fussing over him, Harry felt his face heat. He gripped the sill harder.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, dear?” Mrs. Weasley urged. Harry felt like the beginning would be too much. Thankfully, Ron cut in.

“Mum, You-Know-Who has found a way to, uh, rough Harry up in his dreams and...well, we don’t quite know what to do, because he said he would be coming back for him. That right?” When Ron directed his gaze to him, Harry nodded.

“So, you see,” continued Ron, “we don’t know if we should be packing right now and heading for the hills, or if we should continue like normal.” 

Mrs. Weasley nodded, and moved to sit on Harry’s cot, her hands clutched to the material at the middle of her chest.

“I don’t think there’s a normal in this case. He will probably search the houses he has guards at,” she spoke. Harry nodded, thinking on the guard in the front yard.

“I also think leaving would only draw attention to us. We are still being watched around the clock,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh, we can take that thick bloke out front,” Ron said excitedly, looking to the others. 

“Ronald, please,” his mother said sharply. 

Ron jutted his lower lip out at the correction, but kept quiet.

“Do you think we would be able to use magic against them anyway, if he is one of You-Know-Who’s forces?” asked Harry, meeting Ginny’s eyes. “Wouldn’t that not work because of the new wand registration?”

Ginny frowned, her brow crinkling, and Mrs. Weasley, thinking, slowly slid her slippered feet over the hardwood in a circular pattern.

“We will have to wait for Arthur,” she finally said. “Maybe he has heard something at work.”

“Mrs. Weasley, what if we don’t have time to wait?” Harry said gently, trying not to alarm anyone further. “I think he’s moving on a new schedule, but I don’t know how long we have.”

“You could just hide under the Cloak again,” said Ginny. “It worked before.”

“Yeah, but that was just one of his followers,” returned Harry. “I have a feeling that he will be a lot more thorough.” Ron winced at that, and turned to sit on his bed. 

“Even if we did take out the guard, they would know I was here,” admitted Harry, dejected. “You have family all over, and they will probably have been following all of you.”

“I could send a Patronus to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and George,” Mrs. Weasley said, looking at the wall.

“It might actually be better if they don’t know anything. He won’t have to punish them if he finds out I was ever here.” Harry hated the words he was saying, but he knew they were true.

“So we have to just sit here on our hands and wait for that bastard to come check?” cried Ron. “ _We_ know Harry’s been here. Ruddy bad luck for us if You-Know-Who checks our memories—we’ll be bloody flobberworm fodder!”

“Language,” warned Mrs. Weasley.

“I think now would be a good time to use it,” grumbled Ron. His mother said nothing to that.

“Maybe you all should leave,” suggested Harry grimly. “Just write a note that you’re going on a vacation, and send a message to Mr. Weasley to meet you. Keep everyone else out of it and safe.”

“Harry, no,” Ginny said sternly. “We are not leaving you to hand yourself over to him, again.”

Harry almost argued, but realized he would be outnumbered as three pairs of eyes pinned him.

“So, we’re just going to wait?” Harry asked, a little exasperated.

“And hope,” Mrs. Weasley said sadly, reaching up and taking hold of Ginny’s hand. “If the time comes, we will fight. That part has never changed.”

Harry could not blame her, as the barely-concealed terror cloaked the occupants of the room, but he felt disheartened that Mrs. Weasley did not seem to have any more of a plan than he could think of.

She left to make an early morning tea for all of them. The sun was a while from rising, the sky an inky-blue, but no one was going back to sleep.

“This is absolutely mental,” Ron groaned, covering his face and flopping back onto his bed. Through the layers of potion, Harry’s scar surged, and he suppressed a grimace.

***

The Dark Lord worked with a ruthlessness that did not wane.

It appeared that some had taken their orders less-than-seriously, and had returned with little or no information ready. Dozens of useless guards lay quietly moaning or otherwise making themselves of small notice. Lucius and Bellatrix kept anxious vigil over their Master’s proceedings, out of the way, attempting to blend with the wall of bookcases.

Voldemort was seething as he doled out violence, but when he reached Greyback, a spark of hidden interest ignited. The surly hound and his pack were his last informants, and they had been the busiest. 

Cropping up in several of the guards’ memories, the collective pack had needled almost all of the scouts as they had traversed the countryside forests, following any shred of a lead on Potter’s whereabouts.

Voldemort did not allow even a sliver of satisfaction to escape. This was their job. They were doing the bare minimum by meeting his expectation of effort.

He started with Greyback, Magically pulling him roughly forward and sending him to his knees with a grunt. There was a dissonance in the crowd behind him as the pack watched their leader be forced into submission. The group was silenced with a fierce look from Voldemort, and put their heads down. He delved in.

_The rain was coming down in sheets, their feet splashed through muddy puddles and sloshed through sodden grass as they ran together. Half of the pack ran to the tree line, and circled around for any sign of disturbance. They had been at it for a day non-stop, hauling ass every turn they got. Barely eating, not sleeping. Greyback was proud of his pack, who were exhausted but still dutifully following him through the elements._

_Greyback stalled, and smelled the drenched air, fragrant with summer florals and wooden herbs. Between the heavy scent of those he ran with—their sweat and musk intermingling with the rain—there was something new._

_He breathed deep, and heard the others copy him, trying to seek-out what he was caught on. The others caught up, returning from the trees empty-handed._

_Clothes soaked dark, eight pairs of obedient eyes turned to him, hair flattened as water streamed down their faces and necks._

_He sent a jinx at one who wasn’t paying close-enough attention, and the boy yelped, his hazel eyes immediately fleeting to Greyback and then averting. He was new, and still recovering from the first month in the pack, but he held promise._

_Greyback breathed in deeply again, and over the pounding of rain, he heard his long-haired, scraggly pack mate scowl and say, “I smell it, too. Death Eater scum.”_

_Greyback snarled over a thunderclap. “Watch your tone,” he bared his teeth and got in the man’s face, who immediately cowered._

_A far-off lightning bolt shocked through the air as they ran on, clearing the wards._

_A leaning residence. An open yard._

_The scent was thick here, making Greyback snarl._

Here, Voldemort nearly withdrew, annoyed by the politics in his ranks. Greyback should have recognized the scent of the man he hated from the Marking ceremony. How he had been abused that night with curses and mocking. The others had had no issue taking advantage of the werewolf’s weakness after being freshly Branded. Voldemort had watched that interaction with slight amusement, not expecting inter-rank conflicts to surmount and obstruct their orders later on.

_Dolohov, a water-repelling charm over himself, stood-up next to a slanted fence and faced-off with Greyback, a sneer twisting his stubbled face. As the rest of the pack shot through the wards, Dolohov sized-up the group. They surrounded him, leering and snarling._

The Dark Lord had seen glimpses of this interaction in his Death Eater’s mind earlier. He had punished Antonin for being distracted by such trivial matters, before sending him back to his post.

Voldemort tore back into Greyback’s mind, the werewolf’s eyes blank and unresisting as Voldemort skimmed over the memory. 

_Greyback crept to the kitchen window and harassed the matron of the house._

_A plump women, eyes worried, but the lines of her face creased with anger_ —irrelevant. Voldemort was highly uninterested in Greyback’s lechery, and skimmed further ahead. He almost withdrew again, infuriated by the lack of details he was finding, but he held on a moment longer.

_He watched the new underling scent the air. The boy was too curious._

_Greyback followed his underling into the fringe of the trees. He shoved past him, his frame dwarfing the boy’s._

_“Where?” he demanded gruffly, knowing the boy would not want to disappoint him. Hazel eyes wide and hopeful, he stood aside and pointed to a group of weeds between the trees._

_Then he smelled it, but it was faint and faded quickly. He snarled in frustration, and the boy jumped at the sound from his alpha, and stumbled as Greyback threw him aside._

_He was searching for the scent, coated and distorted under the rainfall, which was washing all evidence away by the minute._

_Confused, his brow creased so hard it was giving him a headache—the scent of an animal, dirty and woodland, not human, mixing with something familiar, but evading him..._

_Greyback smelled the air, and then smelled it again._

_Too difficult to tell... They mustn’t bother the Dark Lord with a false lead. There was too much at stake..._

_He turned through the rain dripping down and looked back at the house, and curiously up at the illuminated window high above._

_Spell fire erupted, and his attention snapped back to the front of the house, the howls barely heard over the rain. He roared, tearing out of the trees and coming to his pack’s aid._

_His pack had rushed Dolohov, who sent three of his underlings crashing into the mud._

_Dolohov began to began to argue in earnest with Greyback. Then, Greyback was losing the fight, and bleeding heavily. He pushed his pack away from him as they tried to help._

_They ran past the house and into the night, slowed by the rain which had only increased, snarling in frustration and anguish over their injuries and loss._

Voldemort skimmed back in the memory, and paused for a long moment at Dolohov’s face, smug in his victory, as the pack retreated. 

Voldemort would usually not begrudge his Death Eater that, except that he had ignored the importance of what Greyback was doing. He should not have interfered. Voldemort would have been proud to once again prove that his soldiers were better than the mutts, but Dolohov would pay for the lack of sense about priorities.

He tossed Greyback aside, and though a couple of the surrounding pack almost moved forward, they stayed where they were, eyes downcast. Greyback stood, barely shaking, and dusted himself off, backing away. Voldemort ignored him, scanning the group.

“Come here.” Voldemort commanded. All pairs of eyes looked up worriedly, and a pair of hazel ones locked with his, widening fearfully. Greyback turned when no one moved forward, and roughly grabbed the boy, wrenching him forward and shoving him in front of his Master. 

The boy was shaking hard, and Voldemort took a step closer, taking in the filthy, tattered clothes, the mussed brown hair, the way he stank of earth and sweat. 

He tried to back up from the Dark Lord, but Greyback grabbed him behind the arms and forced him to stand forward and upright. Voldemort nodded at the pack leader condescendingly.

He turned his eyes to the boy’s, and it was all too easy to fill-in the blanks and corroborate Greyback’s memories.

_The pounding rain. The gathering night._

_The boy snuck away from his pack mates, who were busy antagonizing the man at the front of the house._

_He walked next to an old, rounded car. The scent of exhaust burned his nose and he grimaced, backing away. A cluck of chickens could be heard from the coop behind the car. His stomach gave a pang, and he willed himself to ignore it. He walked along the side of the tilted house, a structure of which he had never seen. It was remarkable to be held at that angle._

_Shouts over the rain could be heard behind him, but he knew his pack mates could handle it. He turned to the tree line, and confusion sprang up in his mind. There was a sure scent._

_He crept into the trees, sniffing the air cautiously._

_At the sound of footsteps, he spun around, and his alpha was there, looking down at him curiously._

_“Where?” his alpha asked, and he quickly pointed through the dribbling rain to a patch of weeds._

_His pack leader smelled the air, and his eyes widened. He shoved past him hard, and the boy bit his lip and watched as his alpha moved in frustrated patterns, breathing deeply._

_Lights burst from behind them and he jumped, as his alpha growled and lunged out of the forest toward the front yard. The boy almost followed, but knew he would be no match without a wand like his alpha had. He turned back to the weeds._

_Over the scent of his pack leader, beneath the rain and the damp scent of a deer, there was something pungent._

_The scuffle picked up behind him, but he just gave it a glance, and turned back to what he was doing. He crept forward in the trees, and the scent grew._

_His eyesight was quite good, only made better by the gift from his alpha, and he crouched low to see that there was something blackened and rotting caught between the twigs of a bush. He removed the thing, and his face wrinkled in distaste._

_It was a banana peel, and rotting through it was, the shriveled end had been...cut. Animals didn’t open things like that. He stood, and stared at it a moment. The noise from the scuffle got louder, so he took note of the location and hurried out with the flimsy, rotten thing in hand._

_The yard was a mess, his pack was in disarray, and seemingly the man at the fence had done it. He snarled, despite himself, crushing the soft peel in his hand. He dodged a stream of light, and when the man’s dark eyes connected with his, he gave his best glare._

_His alpha was writhing in the mud, and bleeding from the head. The boy’s eyes widened and he ran to support him, but a jet of red light hit him, followed by a brief, intense agony. He yelped, but kept his hold on the peel in his hand._

_The lower floor of the building illuminated the front yard._

_His pack leader fell in the mud again, and the boy stood ready, but saw his pack members torn between backing their alpha and retreating. With a loud growl, the boy lunged at the man, who knocked him down easily with another stream of light, tearing his shirt and cutting into his shoulder. He yowled out in pain. One of his pack-mates heaved him up by his good arm._

_The boy reached out for their alpha, but the pack leader shoved past them, furious and bleeding._

_He wanted to show his alpha the peel, to investigate the scent that was clearly fresh, but diluted. Disappointed, he watched his pack leader’s back disappear into the torrential rain and darkness. He dropped the peel as they skirted a forming mud pit by the forest, the large divot overflowing with water._

Voldemort pulled from the memory, having seen more than enough.

The boy’s shaking had grown worse, and he sagged against Greyback’s supporting hands. Silence reigned as Voldemort circulated through what he wanted to do.

What he wanted to do most was eradicate all members of the room off of the face of the earth, but he could not do that.

“Name.” Voldemort continued to stare into the boy’s hazel eyes, studying every line of his iris.

“Jeremiah,” Greyback grunted out, adjusting his hold on the underling. Jeremiah winced.

Voldemort inhaled deeply, and breathed out evenly, the smells of the room offensive and fueling his revulsion.

“Why were you fixated on the peels, Jeremiah?” The boy seemed to shake even harder. He whimpered and looked fearfully over his shoulder to Greyback. Voldemort’s eyes flashed and he wordlessly hit the boy with the Cruciatus. Greyback let his form drop to the floor as he thrashed. 

Releasing him from the curse, Voldemort said sharply, “You answer to me when you are in my presence.” The boy frantically nodded from where he lay on his back, and tried not to cry.

“It was cut. It was fresh,” Jeremiah answered, fear in every word. Voldemort nodded and turned to Greyback, who looked at his Master evenly. Voldemort hated the pride of the werewolves, how they found comfort in the underbelly of society.

“Why was this not brought forward?” he asked quietly, hiding his dangerous intentions.

“Didn’t seem important,” grunted Greyback.

“Greyback,” Voldemort said, daring him to continue his flippant attitude. 

The werewolf lowered his head, but said nothing more. The man was such a disappointment. Voldemort had a slight mind to kill the pack leader right there, but time was of the essence, and coordination with a new alpha would be much too messy.

Greyback had not approached his Master because he had not believed he had anything worth showing besides his loss to Dolohov, but he had been incorrect.

“I will make something very clear to you. It is not his fault, it is yours. Continue your carelessness and you will find that your immunity as pack leader will have run its course. _Avada Kedavra.”_

He did not even break for pause. Greyback startled at the flash of green and there were several gasps as the boy lay motionless at their feet. Bellatrix made herself known again with a breathy laugh.

Greyback looked as though he were about to say something, but just nodded to himself and bent low and picked the limp body up. The boy’s brown mop of hair flopped back off of his forehead.

Greyback did not look at Voldemort, nor the boy in his arms. The Dark Lord decided that the pack leader was finally past his pride, and in a mental state that would be receptive of threats.

“If you ever allow your ego to get in the way of an order again, I will bag and drown you like the animal you are. Get out.” 

He felt Greyback’s fury behind him as the pack left, most almost dazed by what had just happened before them.

When they had all gone, Voldemort called Bellatrix forward. They would go to the Weasleys, those blood traitors that Lucius had such a quarrel with. 

“Bellatrix, you and I will go to the the residence and work out the validity of this evidence.” 

“Of course, my Lord,” she said, her lip quivering with the intensity of her reverence. Bellatrix looked as though she was about to lunge forward and kiss his robe, so he turned his attention away. 

“Lucius,”—the man stepped forward, clearly not wanting to incur any wrath—“you will stay here and punish any stragglers. Severely.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius answered swiftly. 

If Potter was not there, he would burn the house down around their ears. 

He looked out at the new dawn and knew that he would make an example of every Order member until Harry Potter was his once more.

The boy had better be there.

***

“All I’m saying is that you should leave. Is there no way to convince her?” said Harry, exasperated. He paced in front of Ginny and Ron. Their cups of tea were untouched.

“She won’t leave without Dad,” said Ron. “Maybe she’s right, Harry. It would be worse to leave. They might go after Bill and Fleur, and Percy—he’s still supposed to be working at the Ministry. They’re all vulnerable, even if we send a warning.”

Harry’s mind couldn’t see past that point. He was stuck in indecision, and it seemed like they were, too.

“Can we not find Hermione and link up with her, wherever she is?” Harry felt irrationally angry at his other best friend for not being there with them to sort through this crisis. 

Ron shook his head. “This isn’t Hermione’s fault. If she could have taken us with her, she would of.”

“I know—It’s just, we could really use her planning skills right about now.” Harry didn’t manage to keep all of the bitterness out of his voice.

Ron looked like he was fighting the urge to defend Hermione again, and Ginny placed her hand on her brother’s arm. 

“Harry—” Ginny started, placating.

“It’s not good enough,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry, but it’s not. I never should have come here. I never—I never _think!_ If I would just—” He took a deep breath. 

“I wish things could be okay, for just a little while—FUCK!” He yelled out in frustration, and fell back against the wall, an angry stare aimed at the ceiling.

Mrs. Weasley opened the door, looking stern.

“We are all upset, dear, but please, yelling profanities won’t make anything better.”

Harry disagreed, but he felt shamed enough to reply, “Sorry, Mrs. Weasley.”

“I’ll make some breakfast,” she said, clearly accepting his apology, understanding in her eyes. “Food is the great de-escalator of high tempers.” She left the door open a crack as she descended the stairs.

“I’m sorry.” Harry felt like he would apologize a hundred times and it wouldn’t make him feel better. 

“We don’t blame you, mate,” Ron said sympathetically.

“Not at all,” agreed Ginny.

“Thanks... Sorry, I’m just worr—argh!” Harry fell to his knees, grabbing the end of the cot to support him. His eyes watered and he squeezed them shut against the pain that burst forth, deeper than his scar, which was still mostly muted by the pain potion.

_A dirt road. The sensation of broken wards, just ahead. The excited, sing-song humming from his Lieutenant skipping at his side, her curly hair flying erratically as she swerved around him, somehow not interrupting his steady walk forward._

_The appearance of the tilted, stacked building. A collapsed fence and Dolohov flying to his feet, his face white and cut from earlier, bowing as his Master passed._

_Voldemort’s eyes roved over the small garden and narrowed on the door._

Harry broke out of the vision, panting as he turned fearfully to Ron and Ginny, who seemed to understand, their faces pale and terrified.

Harry tried to warn them, but couldn’t be heard over the booming voice that rattled the floors.

“ _Harry Potter, your time has come.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I don’t do cliffhangers a lot. This definitely is one, so I apologize for that.  
> Hit me up in the comments section, because I am all about hearing what you like/love/think about the story.  
> The next chapter has an interesting confrontation, so get hype, or prepare a shelter.  
> As always, thank you for reading, stay well, and *much* love to you until the next time <3


	13. Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort shows Harry Potter just how persuasive he can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all of you readers so much.  
> All the gratitude, all the love.  
> Now, let’s get ready to rumble.  
> Enjoy.

The house shook to its foundation, accompanied by a familiar violence which resonated through Harry’s teeth as he grit them harder against the debilitating pain that kept him on his knees.

Mrs. Weasley was screaming from downstairs, completely incoherent over a splintering blast and a cackle that set Harry’s heart racing with hate.

“Mum!” Ginny shouted, and sprang at the door before her arm was caught, her brother yanking her back.

“You can’t!” Ron yelled at her, his eyes wide and frantic as he stared down at Harry, who was fighting against the tremors wracking his whole body. Adrenaline and anxiety pumped copiously through his blood, leaving him heaving shuddery breaths.

With one hand gripped tightly to the Invisibility Cloak under his pillow, Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught that raged through his body. Through his struggled breathing, he numbly uncurled his fingers and relinquished his hold on the Cloak, pushing himself shakily to his feet. The thundering pain in his scar centralized and retreated inward.

“Harry,” whimpered Ron, ready, but still clinging to Ginny’s arm as she attempted to pull away.

“I’m fine,” he lied, just in need of something to say. He was sweating lightly, and spasms coasted over his body. He felt so aware and, simultaneously, so faint.

“Harry—” Ginny said urgently, “what do we do—get under the Cloak—” She was thinking more rationally, but also far more optimistically, than he.

He shushed her on reflex and, though his labored breaths echoed hollowly between his ears, listened to the house that had fallen so eerily silent. 

He took a step toward the door, and expected the siblings to attempt to block his path, but they just nervously watched as he prodded the door open to show the dim hall. The quiet was sinister, a surreal press from below.

Harry was so numb, his exhales puffing softly out of him, and as aware of his body as he had been a month ago—it seemed that beauty and terror intermingled, resultant of being cornered.

The seconds he stood in that doorway dragged an eternity, put to rest only when he took another step forward. Hands immediately caught him from behind.

“Don’t.” 

It didn’t matter how she clutched at him, how her fingers dug into his chest, latching so firmly onto him with her whole heart’s intentions.

Surely, she could feel his own racing.

So, this was what it would have been like. Many times since the Battle, he had turned over his choice to stand, invisible and alone, at the entrance to the Great Hall, caught between two directions, but he was as frozen then as he was now. The space between his opportunity for freedom and that which had been decided by Fate was a canyon he could not cross. She had long-since torched his bridge to happiness.

He stepped forward again and somehow her hands slipped off of his body, like there was nothing that could stop him from continuing forward, toward that which he had fruitlessly tried to evade.

Harry slowly entered the hall, leaving the bedroom’s morning light at his back. The ringing in his ears faded, but his eyes sparked with blue lights, contrasting the dimness, a residual reaction to almost passing out. He reached out to hold the bannister and blinked hard, trying to get some control.

The first downward step was the most difficult. He wanted gravity or inertia to take the reins and propel him, because he actively fought his own will shouting at him to stay.

The stairwell creaked underfoot but, unlike the other night, he did not bother to avoid it. His whole body trembled but he didn’t feel afraid, rather, Harry felt bolstered and angry. Perhaps it was the unnerving silence that caused his body to betray him, the anticipation building in his very bones and bloodstream.

He continued down, the walk feeling longer than the one he took to the Forest. This was a confrontation he naively supposed he could outlive and, in ignoring that truth, he had brought the devil to the door of those he cared for most. Moreover, he led him right within the walls.

Distantly aware that Ginny and Ron trudged along right behind him, he reached out to the side and drew his hand along the wall in a guiding line, pressing his fingertips to the texture, so he knew that he was here. His life was so full of moments and years stolen from him, maybe he should have been used to it, but there was never any time to process one event before it bled into the next. 

Harry relinquished his tight grip on the bannister and broke contact with the wall as he stepped down to the landing and stopped, his friends on the steps behind him. The knowledge that there was nothing to stop them from becoming quick casualties weighed heavily on him. 

The Dark Lord stood in the center of the Burrow’s living room, looking wholly out-of-place, and his eyes were for Harry, alone. An intense, singular focus.

Harry expected to be nabbed as soon as his feet emerged in the stairwell to the lowest landing—that he would be stunned, wrapped-up, and taken, hopefully without injury to the others—but Voldemort seemed as tempered and stoic in his waiting as he was vengeful and relentless in his goals.

He thought his heart would leap and fresh anxiety would pulse at the sight of the Dark Lord, but Harry felt oddly unaffected, separate and brave.

“Leave them. Take me.” His voice broke into the silence with his attempt at a peaceful bid, and it sounded lonely, sucked into the fabric of the room. Cozy at any other time, the upholstery and carpets now swallowed his words. 

“Be silent.” Voldemort’s deadly response was even and annihilating. 

Harry heard Ginny inhale sharply, but both she and Ron were in no position to hold off these two. From the foot of the stairs, Bellatrix snickered gleefully. Harry did his damnedest to ignore her.

“You will come here, Harry Potter. Now.” The sinister calm sent an electrifying effect coursing through the air.

Though a chill trembled down his spine, Harry rolled his shoulders back and stood tall. He slowly stepped down the short flight and turned past Bellatrix, who purposely stood in his path. As he slid past her, he glared at the sight of the kitchen door blown off its hinges, the evidence of their violent entry and subduing of Mrs. Weasley. 

When he turned again, he couldn’t look at anyone else. 

He couldn’t look at Mrs. Weasley weakly struggling against her bonds, thrown on the couch to the side of Voldemort. He couldn’t look at Ron or Ginny standing fearfully, helplessly, on the open landing behind him, nor at Bellatrix, who was sickeningly excited, almost panting in anticipation.

No, Harry’s attention was for the Dark Lord, only.

Voldemort had not blinked once since Harry appeared, his slit-pupilled eyes blank and cold—nothing like the tempest of writhing emotion that Harry was used to when they were alone.

_“At last.”_

The hiss coursed over him, and Harry stiffened as though he were suddenly overtaken with a strong chill. He raised his eyes to the Dark Lord and hoped his glare was as menacing as he willed it to be. Voldemort’s face remained blank, but Harry felt an almost imperceptible hum of joy sprout, slightly taking him off-guard.

Had he so quickly forgotten what it was like to stand before him?

Quicker than he would have thought possible, Voldemort clamped onto his shoulder, and Harry gasped out with pain, his mouth twisting as he forced his knees not to give way. 

Barely clutching onto control, and despite the claw threatening to dislocate his shoulder, he straightened up, breathing hard through his nose and gritting his molars so hard his jaw popped. 

Over his own rising fury, Voldemort’s emotions surged with annoyance and that same spark of joy. The fingers dug harder into him, but this time it was accompanied by jolting pain, as if he were being electrocuted up his neck and down his arm. The fiery pain jolted across his chest and Harry yelled out, crashing to his knees. The shocks relented, but Voldemort’s hand did not let go of his shoulder.

 _“Get up, Potter,”_ the hiss sneered, mocking him to try. 

Harry’s chest spasmed again, and he squeezed his eyes shut, clearing his throat to cover a groan. He glared up at the man, fury now fueling him in a confusing array as it came from both sides of the bond.

He managed to get one foot up under him, before he was wickedly shocked again and fell to all fours on the rug, Voldemort finally breaking his hold on him. 

Eyes wide with confusion, Harry stared at his shaking hands and blinked hard several times, trying to regain control of his body.

Ginny faintly choked out from behind him, worried.

Voldemort’s annoyance surged, diverging from fury, and Harry’s blood rushed. In a protective bid to somehow stop the Dark Lord from focusing on Ginny, he instinctively swung his hand out and grasped onto Voldemort’s robes, but overshot to latch around something quite solid. 

Cold fury crashed over him in a sickening swing of emotion as Voldemort’s attention was diverted back to him, and Harry craned his neck upward to meet Voldemort’s gaze, which practically pinned him to the floor. Harry’s hold on the Dark Lord’s shin almost slipped, but he redoubled his grip with all the weak strength he could muster. Voldemort’s lip curled, in astonishment, surely, at the brash nature of Harry Potter. The shocks began up his offending forearm, but Harry willed himself to hang on. He grunted out in his stupid effort to hang onto Voldemort’s accursed leg.

Harry swore under his breath as the curse reached his sore shoulder. His fingers reflexively twitched out, releasing his grip. Despite how his mind shouted at him, he was worn, hardly holding himself up on all fours.

A twitch of sound above him made him freeze, his eyes darting to Voldemort’s wand hand to see that the Elder Wand had appeared in his spidery grasp. The Dark Lord’s raging emotions were primed to curse. Though Harry couldn’t see her face, his heart gave a lurch, and his fingers curled atop the rug.

“Master!” Bellatrix shrieked out in the second Harry lunged up, swiping at the wand which was lazily raised out of his range. Before he had even crashed to the floor, he was slammed with the Cruciatus from behind, sending him writhing with boiling pain. He managed to keep his jaw locked shut and not cry out.

It stopped just as suddenly, but Harry’s ears were ringing. 

“A testament to your foolishness, Harry Potter. You must crave pain,” sneered Voldemort, but his emotions had surged. Bellatrix cackled in response to his remark, drunk on the thrill of torture and retaliating on behalf of her Master. 

Harry rolled over to stare hatefully up at the Dark Lord, so high above him, but the older wizard had already turned his attention away. 

At least, that’s how he made it seem. 

Beneath the stoic exterior, Harry could feel the buzz of emotions, like an active beehive. The bulb had sparked to life under the curse, and Harry was tuned-in to the cacophony like never before, a constant noise taking up most of his mind.

“Yes, I am aware that Harry Potter is foolish, but what of the rest of you?” Voldemort’s lowly spoken words were naturally met with silence. Harry managed to sit up to his knees and tried to fight off his dizziness.

Voldemort continued, dangerously calm. “You all have known the laws and have willfully chosen to act out against their letter. You have incorrectly assumed yourselves to be unfettered to this country, untouched by the shifts within the Ministry. The new ways were made very clear to you—did you not come to our center of Magical governance and submit to the requirements of Registration? Yet... you cling,”—Harry heard the furious sneer, the first crack in Voldemort’s composure—“to your _foulness_ , and uphold what is wrong, with such misplaced strength of belief. The refusal to accept how events have progressed is to not subordinate yourselves to the truth.”

Harry, still battling sickening vertigo, could barely keep his eyes open, and caught only a fleeting glimpse of Voldemort’s malignant glare at the room’s occupants as he was magically swept up to his feet and restrained in a standing position against a wall.

“Shall I bloody this house?” Voldemort hissed out, and Harry, were he able, would have leapt away from the voice at his ear, from the vibrations along his back. Gradually coming back to his senses, he realized he was pressed against the solid form of the Dark Lord’s chest. His equilibrium restored, he now saw everyone’s faces clearly. Furious, frightened, and fervent in turn, their expressions were horrid to witness. Harry renewed his attempts to struggle, but found his limbs were tightly held by the invisible restraints.

“It would seem that that has become the necessity you have brought upon yourselves,” Voldemort resumed. “After all, the Order’s rebellion was forged, and nurtured, by each of you.”

A cold hand reached around the front of Harry’s throat and pressed his head back until it was tipped against Voldemort’s collarbone. Down his nose, Harry saw Ginny’s lip curl, Ron pale further, and Bellatrix smirk victoriously, but their reactions were nothing in comparison to Voldemort’s outright surge of glee at having Harry so closely in his physical grasp. Harry winced slightly at the rush of psychotically possessive _triumph_ he wished he could shut out.

“Perhaps I shall find necessity in instructing you of your proper place, today...to rectify those errors in judgment...permanently.” The ability for Voldemort to mask what he truly felt was outstanding, his dark and threatening voice a stark contrast to the blooming emotions that flooded the bulb, making Harry cringe.

“Stop it!” yelled Ginny, seeing Harry’s distress. 

“ _Silence_ , silly girl,” hissed Voldemort, his thin calm shattering, and Harry’s scar renewed with such intensity that he involuntarily groaned out. 

Voldemort’s hand, clasped firmly over his neck, tightened minutely, before he pulled his hand away, splaying his long fingers over Harry’s chest, over his bounding heartbeat, keeping Harry securely against him. 

There had been a moment, in that instant of movement, imperceptible to everyone else who could not feel the possessive strength radiating from the body behind him, who did not have the hands of the Dark Lord resting against their skin. It was a moment of awareness, so fleeting it might have been imagined, though Harry could not believe it to be the case.

The Dark Lord had pulled his hand away, and there had been the smallest stroke of gentle movement, the tiniest lingering—he felt it now, as if the touch had left trails against his warmer skin. It had to be as involuntary as Harry’s groan of pain—the cold fingertips had ghosted along the column of his throat, as if skimming over the memory of the vibrations, before skirting more deliberately away. 

The pain in his scar receded, and Harry felt dizzy again as the bulb was in full tilt of anger and enthusiasm. Voldemort was joyous in conflict, in his element, hoping for someone to take his bait.

Mrs. Weasley had an outburst then, to the side of them, through her gag. It was enough to draw Voldemort’s attention and as Harry felt him turn to look at her, she paled considerably. Bellatrix looked greedily at Mrs. Weasley, ready to pounce at the slightest urging of her master.

Ginny mouthed a shout, but had been silenced at Voldemort’s word. Harry tried to flail uselessly, and found words frantically leaving his mouth, in response to the prowling attention of the Dark witch on Mrs. Weasley.

“I’ll go!” he cried out. The claw over his chest pressed in, and it wasn’t like Ginny’s pleading hands, trying to contain him, it was a warning to stay in submission.

That had never been Harry’s way.

“I’ll leave,” he breathed, and wondered if his words were having any effect as Voldemort glided the Elder Wand across his forehead, gentle, in warning, pushing his fringe out of the way as it slid. Harry couldn’t twist his neck around fully to implore Voldemort any more than with his voice. Maybe that was what was required.

He closed his eyes, and focused hard on Basilisks and pythons and memories of a blank room, of thundering voices, and slithering tones.

 _“I’ll go,”_ he hissed, _“willingly. If they are left alone.”_

The wand dropped away from its tickling movements over his forehead and, feeling Voldemort lean in to tip his face around the side of his head, Harry further screwed his eyes shut. The bulb was indecipherable smoke.

His voice rumbled over the shell of his ear, in English, for the room to hear. “That’s nice of you to offer, Harry,” he murmured, and the strange mix of warmth and cold in his breath made Harry tip his head away, but it wasn’t far enough, as the next words cascaded like warm resin into his ear, down his neck. “But this is bigger than even the great Harry Potter, at the moment.”

Harry felt hatred curl in his stomach at the words. His eyes flashed open, but before he could say a word, Voldemort straightened up again and spoke in drawling voice, hardly hiding his malice. 

“Yes, this kind of radicalized behavior must be contained. What say you, Bellatrix? Shall we start with the matron?”

Harry froze stiff, his spine tingling cold with fear. Ginny acted, though. 

She slammed her hands to the landing’s bannister, face red in sustained anger—silenced, but utterly hostile—no trace of fear in her eyes as she stared Voldemort down. Harry wished she would look away.

“Please.”

The voice floated out into the still air, and it was only a moment later when Harry realized it had come from him. Four pairs of eyes locked on him, and though the body behind him offered no sign of where Voldemort’s attentions were, he assumed the Dark Lord was still staring at Ginny, because murderous rage pulsed forth. Her eyes flickered between Voldemort and him, brow creased questioningly, but Harry, in the literal hands of the enemy, could offer no apologies or explanations.

It was understandably strange that while Ron looked ghostly white, and Harry could see Mrs. Weasley shaking her head in his periphery, Ginny should just be furious and confused. He was going to throw it all away again, to save them, as she had demanded he not. He could hear himself now, a flash of memory of a white tomb, and sunshine glittering on the water. 

_‘We could’ve had ages ... months ... years, maybe.’_

Ginny hadn’t cried then, and she wasn’t now, though she had to know what was coming. Somehow, he couldn’t expect her to be as understanding, but they couldn’t work this out together. They had, yet again, run out of time too quickly—because of Lord Voldemort. 

Always because of Voldemort and his driving force that Fate was apparently addicted to benefitting.

He had to be strong like her, because, short of a miracle, he would never be coming back. Two days to fall back into an almost-love, and now...he wished it had never been. 

He slid his gaze to be fixed to the dark slope of stairs behind her and though his heart gave a pained, leaden thud, he suddenly felt a pressure disappear. Through fleeting confusion, he realized his restraints had been dropped.

“Humility,” whispered the chilling voice from behind him with a breath of a laugh, and Harry violently twisted out of the grip around his chest. Voldemort let him go.

“On your knees, Harry Potter,” a challenging lilt to his softly spoken command. 

Faced with his red-eyed gaze, the snake-faced sneer, Harry wanted to resist. It seemed as though this were almost a form of payback for breaking the Imperius Curse in the Graveyard, years before. This was an ultimatum, and Voldemort could be amused all he wanted, because Harry was not going to fuck this up over pride.

He swallowed thickly, and glanced at the other faces. They were confused, and watchful, but none so much as Bellatrix, whose eyes were so suspiciously narrowed at him that Harry was concerned she might do something extreme in preemptive protection of her Master. 

Slowly, he lowered himself, until he felt the floorboards beneath the thin carpet.

Voldemort’s eyes darkened and glittered with amusement, and the bulb was freshly sparking with that same sustained exuberance, twisting in between his generous amounts of disdain. Harry swallowed again and forced his face to remain expressionless. He wet his lips, and forced his mind to not think of this as anything more than a trade—humility for life.

“Please,” he forced out, almost a sigh. 

Harry Potter did not beg or plead to the Dark Lord. Voldemort’s red eyes staying forward, attentive, but they had lost their murderous glare, as though they had glassed over on one word from Harry. Bellatrix recovered quickest, wand in hand and ready to whip it in any direction at the command of her Lord, just softly scoffed, and it was so much calmer than she usually was. But she always was one to break a tense silence. 

“Quiet, Bella, this is not the first time I have heard Harry...beg.” 

Harry felt his face go hot at the implication, and he didn’t think a defense of _that was one time_ was going to help much to clear the confusion and disgust in the air. It was probably best to not say anything at all, to let the moments pass and allow everyone to think Voldemort was gloating over nothing. 

Harry didn’t beg, not for anything but the welfare of those he loved. 

Voldemort stood there in the middle of the floor, his night-black robes splayed around his feet and draped around his thin frame. In the Burrow’s cramped and low-ceilinged sitting room, his towering presence unwelcome, but he was here in the flesh, which meant that Harry could tell when the Dark Lord was toying with an idea. 

“Tell me, Harry,” Voldemort said suddenly. “Would they have hidden you, tried to conceal you from me, tried to _lie_ to me, if I didn’t have utter control of this world, over them, over you? Would they have been defiant, to the last?” 

Harry didn’t know what to say, even as Voldemort turned his gaze, now like a fiery spotlight, onto him. His lips parted, but he was speechless, because he knew that he couldn’t answer—because _of course_ they would, they already had tried, and they had done so time and time again. 

Voldemort knew this, and yet, out of cruelty, he asked Harry to sign their death warrants. 

Harry thought about controlling his voice, of telling a lie, but was Voldemort playing at a different angle? Did he want Harry to tell him the truth, even a truth he already knew? 

He didn’t get a chance to ponder it further, and was still gaping like a fish when Ron spoke.

“Of course we would, you tosspot!” It was a daring declaration, even despite the crack of terror that seeped into his normal voice, and that Gryffindor bravery, that pride that Harry felt toward it, bolstered him. His eyes hardened up at Voldemort, whose thin nostrils flared.

Bellatrix was on Ron in a second, needing no order to set her into motion when she heard that level of disrespect. Ron skidded down the short flight of steps from the landing he and Ginny were on, screaming and thrashing viciously. Ginny was clearly restrained from bounding forward and helping, as she slammed her hands against an invisible barrier at the top of the steps, mouthing silent swears.

“Not my children, you _bitch!_ ” Mrs. Weasley had spat out her gag and was writhing with abandon against the ropes that bound her.

Voldemort’s cold eyes didn’t leave Harry’s, even as Harry slammed his fist angrily into the floor and shouted uselessly at him to stop.

The Dark Lord’s face was stony, completely disinterested in the chaos unraveling in the room. Harry’s scar seared like a fresh coal had been inserted into it, leaving him to gasp out and grit his teeth.

“Al _right!”_ he shouted.

“NO, Harry Potter!” roared Voldemort, and the ceiling beams shook, releasing a flurry of dust.

Everyone seemed to freeze, though Ron lay moaning. Harry’s sudden and fleeting rebelliousness had been squashed with his distress and worry for his friend. He was absolutely powerless, and that knowledge settled on him like the dust. 

“You will bow to your betters,” snarled Voldemort, eyes bright red and flashing with fury. “ _You will obey.”_

Harry found himself shrinking a bit back onto his heels, the pain still cleaving at his head. Pain that should have been a reminder that he should be stronger, that he shouldn’t back down, that _for once_ he should choose the many faceless and nameless others who would fall otherwise, over the few he knew. That could only be a possibility if he locked his protectiveness away and contained the urge to give in to save the Weasleys. 

He loved his friends, though. He wasn’t willing to lose them.

Harry just nodded a little, staring at the robe before him, wishing to fall into the blackness, to soar away from this life and the decisions that were killing him to make.

“Continue,” Voldemort urged softly, and Bellatrix instantly complied. Ron’s tortured yelling and knocking about in the small space at the bottom of the stairs rang out.

Harry wanted to shout out, goosebumps erupting in his anger, but held his tongue between his molars, and forced his silence. His shaking increased and he began to rock back and forth on his knees, his fists pushed into the hardwood, trying to show his compliance, his deference, his submission—whatever Voldemort wanted to see—so he would stop hurting his friend. He was _trying_. 

The screaming stopped and Ron only weakly groaned in the aftermath. Harry’s brow twitched and furrowed and he forced himself to not look at Ron, to not look up, to keep his eyes straight ahead into the robes, and control his shaking. He swallowed drily as Ron’s pained grumbling subsided.

“Again,” the soft command. The yells and thumping against the lower stairs began, as Ron’s feet flailed. Harry glared hatefully up at Voldemort, and balled his fists, his whole body tense and trembling. 

Voldemort did not look away, did not give any indication that there was anything or anyone else in the room besides the young wizard kneeling at his feet.

When it stopped, Ron didn’t make a noise. Harry was distressed at this, he was sweating and shaking and so full of hatred and revulsion and sadness. His hands flexed next to his thighs. He wanted to check on Ron, crawl to him, apologize, _something_.

“Have you learned, yet, Harry Potter?” and Harry barely kept his hateful tears behind his eyes as he stared up at the pallid face above him, holding no mercy. It was just the flat expression of an unkind, monstrous man. He wondered if he looked weak and pathetic, knelt on the Burrow’s living room floor. He wondered if his eyes were fearful, or if it was terribly obvious how wrung he was, living this nightmare.

“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord hissed sharply, eyes hardened and unmoved from Harry’s distraught face. Ron jerked and jolted, but his pained noises were not at the volume of before—he was straining for consciousness.

“I have!” roared Harry, frantically looking at what he could see of Ron, from behind the wooden bannister rails. He was sprawled at the bottom of the landing, still half on the incline of the stairs, his red hair the most visible as his head twitched back and forth. 

Harry looked back to Voldemort, who slightly curled his lip in disgust at Harry’s panic. Voldemort raised his hand and Bellatrix stopped, but kept her wand pointed down at Ron.

“See how willingness to cooperate can be taught, and what sometimes must transpire to achieve it?” tsked Voldemort. “What a terrible cost disobedience is.”

The red eyes looked down at him with mocking pity. He tilted his pale head as if considering something. Harry looked back, but that’s all it was now— just looking. He felt empty. He shivered, and Voldemort turned away, to address the room’s occupants at large.

“Must I threaten you more, to let you know how foolish and strange your insolence is in this new age? The temptation to revolt will only bring suffering, versus the alternative.” He looked at each of the three Weasleys in turn. The Dark Lord did not get an answer, but he seemed to be satisfied enough by their silence, forced though it was. 

“Compliance is painless. Reject all your so-called saviors of before”—he turned back to Harry, and those crimson eyes sucked him in, like a portal to hell—“and put your faith,” he whispered, soft, “in me.”

A heavy silence—magically- and fearfully-induced—fell. Bellatrix’s breaths were still heavy with elation from the Unforgivable, from the passion resultant of following her Lord’s instruction. Harry could almost feel how much she wanted to proclaim her faith at that very moment. 

Churning hate, for her, twisted his stomach, his sadness and fear now transforming to a budding, roiling anger. It was something he could work with.

“Let them go,” Harry said, low and commanding, though his body still anxiously shook. 

He was Harry _Merlin-fucking Potter_ , and he wasn’t going to roll over to a couple of bullies—Ron was already hurt, and they obviously weren’t going to stop. Not unless he could still get them out of this. He was _destined_ to beat the Dark Lord, who, purposeful or not, had rather shown his hand. 

Voldemort wanted compliance? Harry would comply. Voldemort wanted submission, and a stupid, little following? Harry would be there. He would get in close, and he wouldn’t stop until he had the last piece of Voldemort’s soul between his two willful hands and could snuff its fire _out_.

Lord Voldemort’s face twisted into a sardonic sneer at Harry’s returning boldness, and Harry knew he was probably following his train of thought, listening to his intention. Harry didn’t care—let the Dark Lord know of all his plans.

Let Tom Riddle underestimate Harry Potter, again.

Harry’s eye twitched and he raised himself to his full height, his chin raised defiantly to Voldemort, who allowed his shaky ascent, his smirk not fading, but rather nodding him along.

“Take it up,” the Dark Lord whispered, leaning in a touch, “with Bellatrix.” 

Harry faltered at that, struggling to maintain his calm. 

“Tell her to back off,” Harry countered, keeping his voice measured. “She is only doing it because of you.”

Voldemort’s lip twitched up. Aware he was ordering Voldemort around, Harry steeled himself for torture, to join Ron on the floor. 

“Bellatrix,” the voice came softly, and she turned, having just flicked her wand at Ginny, who tried to lunge over the bannister, sending her falling back with a bruising thud, silent and fuming. The Dark witch’s brown eyes were full of sickening devotion, shining with a predatory lust, as she adored her Master. 

“Harry has something to ask you,” Voldemort said coolly, eyes not shifting from his face, and clasping onto his shoulder again. 

He glared hard at Voldemort, and his scar flashed with burning pain that eased as Harry finally turned in her direction, though he flickered his eyes to Ginny. She was standing up again on the landing, separated from him by the bannister, and staring at the grip Voldemort was now indenting into his shoulder. 

Harry’s eyes then went to Ron, who was softly groaning at the foot of the stairs, and then to Mrs. Weasley, who had been bound with ropes around her torso and wrists, the white gag jammed in her mouth again. Her eyes were worried, looking from Harry to her children. 

Harry finally dragged his gaze to Bellatrix, standing over Ron, who smiled, the morning sun streaming from the kitchen windows across the room behind her wild hair, making her look like a deranged angel, a harpy in black skirts.

She smirked, her eyes shining with amusement at Harry’s predicament, especially at the hands of her Master. 

“Bellatrix,” Harry said tersely, clearing his throat to avoid gagging on the words he was about to say. 

“Something to ask?” she chirped sweetly, her dark eyes intense, clearly enjoying his subjugation. Harry couldn’t take it.

“Go to hell,” he stated cheerfully.

The smile dropped from her face as it twisted into a snarl. She raised her wand but glanced between Harry and her Master, not daring to overstep any plan. The claw on his shoulder gouged into him, and he grunted, knees buckling again.

“Manners, Harry Potter,” hissed Voldemort beside him. Harry swerved suddenly, too jarred by the sudden hate that those words brought up in him, in remembrance of the room he had locked him away in. He moved so swiftly that Voldemort’s grip failed, and he spun and jabbed an accusing finger at the Dark witch, wishing he had a wand, wishing either Tom Riddle or he or both had never been born.

“She deserves it,” he growled up at the Dark Lord, but Voldemort merely drew himself up, his long neck twisting in irritation.

“You believe you know what she deserves? A mere teenager, with no experience of the world, outside of your petty idealism,” spat Voldemort. “Shall I kill your friends, Harry Potter? Shall I lay them up for slaughter to teach you how to respect those who have earned it, who have sacrificed, truly, for another?”—Harry shook his head in disbelief, dropping his hand and scoffing as he anticipated, for once, where Voldemort’s mind was going—“As she has?” the snake finished. Harry was grinding his teeth so hard he expected them to crack.

Voldemort’s eyes bore into him, daring him to say anything, and Bellatrix cackled.

“My Lord, let me kill the boy,” she whispered, reverent and eager. 

Voldemort’s eyes unfocused for a moment, and the flicker and swing in his emotions was jarring enough that Harry noticed through his own anger. It was over as quickly as it had come, but it had been there: a strange, possessive guarding. 

He re-met Harry’s eyes, and Harry swallowed at the intensity, the daring, in the chilling red glare that matched the murderous anger.

“No, your inspiration is needed elsewhere, my most loyal.” 

It was scary how much Voldemort hid behind his calm voice. Harry glanced at her, catching a pout. 

“Now,” hissed Voldemort, so deadly, that every hair on Harry’s body shot to fearful attention. Bellatrix immediately bowed, and exited the room. 

A thunderous noise erupted from the kitchen as she made her way out as every pan, dish, bit of furniture was thrown out of its place and smashed into one another. Over the startling cacophony, Bellatrix could faintly be heard outside, cackling and taunting in her baby voice.

While Harry had jumped at the noise, Voldemort’s mouth twitched in amusement, blinking once, but Harry sensed some disbelief and a flash of annoyance over the bond, possibly that she had just done that. The strike of emotion fizzled as Voldemort twitched his wand, the noise silencing itself as every broken bit hovered and set itself down softly.

Yells from outside answered what Bellatrix had left to do. Dolohov was being punished. 

Harry’s heart was thundering as he turned back to see Voldemort was menacingly close to his face. He felt like his whole body shook with every thump in his chest as the Dark Lord raised his wand and waved it. Harry blinked, not sure what had been done.

“ _Now we shall see what they have learned,”_ his voice rattled, giving a small smirk before he straightened again. Harry was only confused for a moment.

“I require the simplest of things from all of you—consent through inactivity. You have nothing to gain from continuing. As you have seen, your freedom lies in your compliance. The choice has always been yours. I maintain, every ounce of Magical blood spilt is a terrible waste.” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at Ginny and Mrs. Weasley.

“If you continue,” he warned suddenly, wrapping an arm around Harry’s chest again, so tightly that Harry’s eyes went wide and his whole face twisted in confusion, “I have more than one point of leverage.”

Harry didn’t even hear the curse. 

It was an unpleasantness that coursed through his body. He fell under and under as it crashed over him and he let it, held in Voldemort’s arms as he thrashed, until there was no fight in him, just seizing.

It felt like pain, but it wasn’t. It was discomfort, but with every seizing movement his mind further detached. His body was thrashing like it was in the worst pain imaginable, but it didn’t line up with his internal reality.

There was also a voice, a terrorizing sound that resonated through him, and it overarched the lie, giving it life: “This is how it will be. You shall fall, as Harry Potter has, unable to withstand my power.” 

Harry knew that there was something on the line, something…but he was lost. His mind felt far away from his body.

He was dropped to the floor then, and everything stopped. His cheek was pressed to the fibers of the worn carpet, and he blinked, feeling like his mind had just been forcibly returned back into his body. Over the ringing in his ears, there was a sniffling. Blearily, he tried to look around.

He saw a pale foot next to him, half-covered by a pooled material so black that it might have been a shadow. Tilting his head, it was a rug so familiar: the oranges, reds, and yellows mixing so fondly with the memories he had of the Burrow. His brow furrowed.

Those memories were now tainted, by Voldemort, standing here, being here. 

Harry had done this. Harry had brought him here—and _he_ had brought _her_. 

Harry worked against his spasming muscles to force his way to his knees. All the while he continued to stare at that foot—its blueish veins on top, the dirt lining the toes and the bottom edge of the sole, the toenails which were grayish and rounded.

He barely felt the nails scrape over the top of his scalp and down to the back of his head. He shivered, his skin coming alive in icy prickles at the light scratching contact. It wasn’t brutal, but it was deliberate. As was the tilting of his head back. Heavy and nonresistant, it just snapped back as Voldemort handled him. He was always handling him in the least-gentle ways. 

This was not the vicious touch that he had grown accustomed to, though. In fact, if it had been from someone else—if it had been Ginny who threaded her fingers through his hair, tilted his head back, leaned in to kiss his throat with warm breath in its wake—it wouldn’t have felt out of place.

His scar heated and Harry met those eyes, furiously red and calculating and observant, so high above where he knelt, useless and exhausted. As he felt his eyes close, he gave a little breathless chuckle, and sighed in resignation...because he understood.

This was a test. He was acting along how Voldemort wanted him to act, without even knowing it. Voldemort had used a curse that made it look like he was suffering, but Harry had been removed.

The question was: _why?_

He was pulled from his musings when he looked straight ahead again, ignoring the long fingers still buried in his hair. 

Ginny was slumped, kneeling on the landing, her hands gripping the bars of the railing as she stared fearfully at him, her silent tears streaming down her face, though she was no longer silenced. 

His chest broke, it really did, at the sight. Merlin’s sakes, Ginny was crying, and it was for him. 

To see her so hurt, he felt the fight in him weigh down further. Eyes closing again, he realized he was deadened, the exhaustion of the past days’ catching up over his adrenaline.

If Harry wanted no ill fate to befall the Weasleys, they had to go, while it was still calm, before Bellatrix came back, while the only one he had to contend with was Voldemort. 

With nothing else to do, Harry whispered, “ _You have what you want. Leave them, and take me._ ” He opened his eyes again to see that derisive scowl on Voldemort face, and from this angle the snakelike face was hideous and mean.

Perhaps he agreed with him, because Voldemort grabbed his hair further, yanking him to stand. Grasping him around the back, his large hand gripped his waist and hip. Harry shuddered at the contact, pulled against the man’s side as he was, and willed himself to remain calm, to not be sickened by his fate, because it would save the Weasleys. 

Harry could hardly bear to look at them, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to memorize Ginny’s face: her light freckles, her pink lips, her cascading red hair, and her curved brow—creased with worry for Harry. 

They passed the foot of the stairs, Harry craning his neck around Voldemort’s chest as he pushed his stumbling body forward, and his heart shot to his throat, because Ron’s gaze met his. He looked alert, but he must have realized what was happening because he made a to move to follow, to stop Harry from being taken, but collapsed with a wince. In those blue orbs, there was only concern and apologies.

Harry ignored the flash of white-hot agony shooting through his scar—presumably for dragging his feet—as the Dark Lord pulled him roughly against the length of his side and he dragged him through the broken kitchen, clearing shards out of his path. Harry turned his head one last time over his shoulder, frantic to catch a glimpse of what he was leaving behind. 

He saw a flash of Ginny’s red hair in the morning sunlight, as she quickly helped Ron sit against the wall. Harry had been right: Ginny perfectly complimented the sun. 

The hand on his hip tightened, indenting bruises. 

They entered the front yard, and both Bellatrix and Dolohov were gone. Their pace increased. 

There was a desperate shout behind them.

Harry suddenly freaked out, and tried again to resist the grip firmly around him. He pushed against his side and grunted, but his squirming amounted to nothing as he was dragged to the fence, and knew they were going to be out of sight in a moment, behind the broken wards. 

“Harry—Harry!” Ginny came running out of the house, calling for him and what he wouldn’t do to run to her, to hold her and hug her, to offer solace and get some of his own. His scar seared.

Despite everything, with the end coming so clearly as he was shunted across the yard, Harry wanted to yell something back—maybe in a the-world-will-never-get-me-down kind of way—but felt his throat violently constrict, a magical force choking his air. He couldn’t cough, he couldn’t call out, he couldn’t think of answering Ginny, but he hoped beyond frantic hope that she would just know.

Voldemort whipped his cloak up around Harry, sheltering him from view, and they crossed the boundary, drew together in the punishing event of side-along Apparition, and slammed down on the other side to the rage that Voldemort immediately sent his way.

The Dark Lord was not merciful, it was not in his nature, no matter what he projected to be in the political sphere, no matter what he said, it would never be him.

Harry didn’t know what to do anymore. This was Voldemort’s world, now, so it seemed. 

So, as Harry attempted not to vomit from the anxiety and stress of his least-favorite transport, it was not a surprise that Voldemort was already walking away from him, careless to Harry running away, despite what he must have known about his current state and how much he wanted to flee. Harry recovered, seeing that they were on the other side of a wrought-iron gate, with towering privacy hedges along the path they were on.

The surroundings of the gravel path, the hulking ebony spires and wide entryway of the building before them were vaguely familiar to Harry’s tired mind. 

_Malfoy Manor_ , something supplied to him.

He wanted to be mad, to be back here. The last place Dobby had been alive. When there had been friends, but Hermione had been tortured. He knew this was only the dwelling of his enemies, but Harry’s hatred was diluted. He felt alone, and that feeling was like being doused in cold water.

“Do you require restraints?” asked Voldemort testily, when he didn’t immediately follow. Harry just shook his head, not in the mood. They walked, and Harry was hesitant to leave the open air when they reached the shadow of the wide steps, wondering how long he would be trapped from seeing the sky this time. 

Voldemort went inside ahead of him, and Harry followed along in a haze, scratching nervously at his scar. 

It hadn’t hit him. Just as suddenly as his escape had occurred, he was caught again.

They paused in the foyer. It was dim, and rather empty. The huge house was unexpectedly quiet.

He hadn’t appreciated just how large Malfoy’s house had been the last time. Though he needed no reminder of which door led to the drawing room, there were two passages that opened into tunnel-like hallways, dimly-lit along the way, and a spiral stone staircase which led to the upper floors.

A shifting of air next to him had Harry looking back at the Dark Lord, but he jumped at his closeness.

Voldemort reached forward, and Harry oppositely mirrored him, leaning back and wildly thinking he was reaching to take one of his eyes right from the socket. 

The cold fingertips touched on the bags under Harry’s left eye, and their press to the thin skin felt like an ice pack. 

It felt like guilt and concern Voldemort was not capable of.

“Get your fucking hands off of me,” Harry whispered, but there lacked a bite. Voldemort grabbed him by the collar and pulled him across the foyer and into the drawing room, the doors crashing shut.

“You must have a death wish,” Voldemort snarled, slamming him into the wall and blocking him in.

Harry didn’t know why it happened, but he started to laugh, because it just was so ridiculous, the whole situation. Why Voldemort would even care, after all he had done in the last few hours, all the way through the past seventy years—in a tiny motion of touch, Harry had felt more disgust toward him than he could imagine. The small chuckles bubbled into hysterics rather quickly, and Harry pushed his head back against the wall, exposing his neck. 

He didn’t fucking _care,_ couldn’t the Dark Lord see that? How could he, after everything? 

Running his tongue along his teeth, Harry brought his laughter back down to a chuckle and looked up at Voldemort. 

“Oh, I lost the will to live long ago,” he said sarcastically. It resulted in Voldemort pulling him forward by the shirt collar and slamming him back into the stone wall. Harry’s lip curled, fury overtaking his hysterics.

“Got it out of you?” snarled Harry, tipping his chin back, wanting pain. “I think I can take a little bit more, if you’re feeling up to it.” He bared his teeth, layering his hatred against this man, this _Dark Lord_. No, he didn’t care at all.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. He let go of his shirt front.

“Does everyone know you’re so _handsy_ in person, Tom?” spat Harry, straightening his shirt, trying not to mind the little amount of space he had between his chest and the Dark Lord. This wasn’t a one-on-one, trapped-in-a-room, middle-of-nowhere place. Voldemort had brought him to _the_ Death Eater lair. It was going to be worse, Harry just knew it. It was going to be worse.

He groaned, and tried to push past Voldemort, but the man was immovable. Irritating. _A git._

“What do you _want?”_ whined Harry, sick of games. Just...sick, in general. He kept his hands to himself, though, balling them into fists by his sides. 

In response, Voldemort lifted his hand again, and Harry blinked at him, his eyes narrowed, daring him. 

A finger just hooked around his shirt collar and pulled it straight, smoothing it from the dip of his collarbone and along the top of his shoulder. Harry felt a rush of blood to his face as the long finger drew itself up the side of his neck and brushed its length lightly up and down the side of his cheek. Voldemort’s eyes traced his finger’s gentle movements, and Harry couldn’t understand him at all, not for a moment, to know why he was doing this, or why the bulb was swirling in confusion, or if Harry was the confused one. 

Harry was rigid against the wall, but his whole body was flushed by the time Voldemort pulled his hand away.

“Harry Potter...if you run again—”

“Yeah, I won’t,” Harry cut him off, feeling dizzy from the blood rushing into his head and out of it so quickly with his changing emotions, and leaned his head back against the wall. Voldemort regarded him, but Harry was so tired, to the point of annoyance, now. 

“Consequences, right?” Harry grudgingly grunted out. He pushed his glasses up his bridge and swiped his hand anxiously under his nose. “So, erm, got that bit to outweigh it.”

Voldemort was bent on his points, though. “Yes, there will be consequences.”

Harry tutted out a frustrated noise.

“You’re a right foul bastard, and if I could leave, I would,” he held back tears, and clucked his tongue. “But I can’t do that, can I? So,” he trailed off, kicking his heel against the wall, and dragging his palm across his mouth, every muscle in his jaw flexing as he fought to control himself.

“Then we understand each other.”

Harry said nothing to that, because they most certainly did not, on a fundamental level, understand a _thing_ about each other at the moment. He was rather chilled, with tremors sprouting through him every few seconds, leaving him riled-up and exhausted at the same time. The chill of the stone was cooling his back through his t-shirt.

Aggravated, he rubbed the underside of his nose with the back of his arm, pointedly not looking at Voldemort looming over him.

Harry was certain he was about to get tortured again and couldn’t bring himself to care. Numb, angry, clueless...he was just shy of feeling defeated with the combination. He chewed on the inside of his mouth and ignored the long look Voldemort was giving him.

“Accommodations,” the older wizard suddenly announced. Voldemort backed off of the wall, not taking his eyes off of him, but Harry was far past caring to notice. He was so wrung, so tired.

“Follow the lights.” At Voldemort’s words, lights like stepping stones lit his path out of the door and up the stairs.

“No one’s going to take me there?” Harry said drily. “Trust me that much?”

“Country to run,” answered Voldemort, sardonic in equal measure, as if he were bored of Harry’s presence. Harry didn’t care either way. “I would advise against wandering off the set path,” the Dark Lord added, the threat clear.

The bastard had no comprehension of how he felt, so Harry ignored anything in the bulb. The worst had already happened, as far as he was concerned. He was here, indefinitely. Another notch of failure added to his belt.

“I would get your rest,” said Voldemort, as Harry was about to turn. “You will be ready to travel to the Ministry tomorrow to show face, and I implore you not to speak to anyone.”

Harry almost shouted, the accusations nearly escaping him, but bottled it, amounting to a sharp inhale and straightening up. If he was disoriented and messed up, it was Voldemort’s fault. 

The doors unlatched and swung open to the entryway again without another word from the Dark Lord. Harry took his escape and didn’t look back, trudging on the illuminated marks. Not in the mood to see what the retaliation for stepping off of the path was, he minded the instruction and pretended he was a frog hopping along a series of lily pads.

After he had climbed the spiral stone stairway, he walked with his head mostly down along a darkened hallway to the right. The upper floors of the manor had a severe take on the trappings of Hogwarts: the rugs were thick, the lighting was dim, and the stone walls radiated cold, covered in dark tapestries and quietly whispering paintings. 

The trail stopped at a closed door, the glowing mark pulsing at the threshold. Harry hesitated, looking down the hallways both ways and over his shoulder. The mark pulsed more insistently, so he reached out and turned the knob.

It was a bedroom. He glanced a last time over his shoulder, before closing the door with a soft click. Cautious but curious, he opened it again to see it hadn’t locked. 

For a moment, he stared out at the darkened hallway, but he pushed the door shut again.

Some of his will had been smashed by the weight of the day’s events. For a long time he just stood and stared blankly at the huge bed, clearly made for more than one person, with its four thin pillars, decoratively carved with lines and swirls. There was a window to the left, its thin hangings drawn to filter the light. A dark wardrobe stood to his right. Directly ahead of him, next to the bed’s headboard, a doorway marked a darkened bathroom with a large tub against the farthest wall. There was even a writing desk along the wall next to him. 

Harry hated it all. It was insulting. He wanted the squeaky cot in Ron’s room, the laughter and ruckus of Exploding Snap, the creaky wooden floors, and the borrowed clothes. He wanted to be where he was wanted for love, not possession. He wanted to not feel so alone.

He stared around him and at the bed in the dim room for a long while, feeling like he had gone backwards in the worst way, and dreading whatever was in store at the Ministry tomorrow. Harry walked over and pulled the heavier curtains of the window closed, to block the light.

In the end, he dragged the heavy blankets onto the floor and tried to stop trembling. He tried not to think about the day, and how he could have done things differently—he didn’t allow his mind to trace along that track for long.

He pulled the bedding into the bathroom and lined the tub with the comforter and blanket. He threw two of the pillows in, so his feet would be over the drain.

Unfortunately, as he was adjusting the blankets around the bottom, he banged his head beautifully on the bathtub faucet. Cussing, he massaged the bump and waited for his vision to return from dark splotches and blue lights.

Completely over everything, he irritably curled into a ball on top of his makeshift bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulder, the hard bottom of the tub digging into his hip through the comforter.

He stared at the closed bedroom door over the edge of the tub, feeling the press of silence, and the lack of pain in his scar, because Voldemort surely knew he had been delivered to his room. He tried to shut his eyes, but they kept opening to the door, wary that it would open and he would be attacked in some way by Voldemort or a Death Eater. He could feel the morning crawl on, glad he pulled the drapes, and he felt so damn tired. He took off his glasses and folded them on the blanket next to him.

Burrowing deeper down, he stared at the tub wall, his arm wedged between the two pillows beneath his ear, trying to relax. 

Harry took a deep breath, but it was shuddery and he suddenly choked, his head full of building pressure. He felt something trickle along his nose and was surprised when a series of hot tears dripped down into the pillow. It made sense, he shouldn’t have been surprised—he was so sad right now, he felt genuinely ill.

Once he started crying, though, he found himself just letting go. He dropped his guard with himself down and released his vulnerability, letting himself quietly sob, gripping his hands into the pillow. 

When the tears began to stop falling involuntarily, he allowed himself to reach down and pull the sadness right out of his own chest and cry, until he was completely drained, until he felt a little more at peace with his frayed nerves and loss. 

He stopped and restarted a couple times, his body shaking, curling in and comforting himself, and the pillowcase darkened where he wiped his eyes on it.

The outpouring eventually calmed. Harry sniffed a few times coming back to awareness after finally and honestly having an emotional release. He yawned, blinking his damp eyes, and shifted the blanket up under his chin.

Depleted, Harry moved his head over from the damp spot on the pillow and sank deeper, his body limp and completely exhausted. Cradled in the hardened bowl of the tub was like laying in the hull of a rowboat, and it felt nice to be surrounded. 

He sighed deeply, determined to allow himself a reprieve by keeping his eyes shut until the next morning came, and if there were nightmares while he slept, he fortunately forgot them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to know what you’re thinking at this point lmao, and if you’ve ever slept in a tub.  
> Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and however else you enjoy this story with me, your support is incredible.  
> Much love to you and yours until the next one <3


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